


Apostasy

by Emma_Trevelyan



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Alistair/Female Cousland Background, Angst, Avvar, Avvar!Alistair, Avvar!Cullen, Cullenlingus, Dirty Talk, F/M, Fingering, Hurt/Comfort, Knight-Enchanter, Knight-Enchanter As Templars headcanon, Oral Sex, Plot, Rating May Change, Romance, Semi-Public Sex, Sexual Tension, Slow Burn, Some Plot, Templars, barbarian au, lyrium withdrawl, smut to come, sort of
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-01-03
Updated: 2016-02-04
Packaged: 2018-05-11 06:46:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 13
Words: 33,076
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5617354
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Emma_Trevelyan/pseuds/Emma_Trevelyan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After a brutal attack on her team, Emma Trevelyan is taken in by the Avvar Red Lion clan. When she is the only survivor, the Knight Commander accuses her of apostasy, and threatens to take her back to the Circle in chains. When the rugged Thane, Cullen, declares her is rightfully stolen bride, it causes a stir in the hold. The wind is shifting in the Red Lion clan; can Emma complete her duty to prove her innocence? Can Cullen keep order in Red Lion hold?</p><p>For that matter, can they deal with their undeniable, intense attraction for one another?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Welcome to Red Lion Hold

Emma Trevelyan shifted in her saddle; her staff dug between her shoulder blades and her silverite armor ground noisily at her. They’d been on the road for _days_ ; they were miles from where they started, deep into the Ferelden wilds, if her knowledge was correct. Her time at Ostwick, as Spartan and meager as her existence had been, seemed downright cultured compared to this endless, muddy forest. She sighed deeply, earning a sardonic look from the Knight-Lieutenant, Ser Ulrich.

“Have patience, Knight-Enchanter,” he sighed, rolling his brilliant blue eyes.

“We’ve been at this for _days,_ Knight-Lieutenant,” Emma murmured. “The men are tired.”

Ulrich turned in his mount, taking in the three Templars they had with them. They slumped in their saddles, hardly vigilant, and clearly exhausted.

“All right,” Ulrich conceded. “See to their wounds, Knight-Enchanter. Then set a perimeter while we make camp.”

“Yes, Ser,” Emma replied, swinging her saddle bag over her shoulder, resting it at her hip.

She enjoyed the routine as much as anything. Mages were rare enough in the Chantry, let alone in the Order itself. She was one of those rare exceptions, and even then the men treated her with a fair bit of distance. Unlike the others, she could not leave the camp, nor could she be involved in watches or negotiations with townspeople. She had to remain within ear shot of the Knight-Lieutenant at all times; she could never act without a proved mandate from the Knight Commander, or in a pinch, from the highest ranked Knight-Templar with her. She didn’t even have a proper rank.

That doesn’t mean, of course, the Chantry didn’t leash her like _all_ their Templars. She was expected to receive Lyrium philters, she wore the insignia on her specially designed Templar plate, and she still stood for the Order. But her Knight Commander believed her unique, and especially qualified for the task at hand. She rather shivered when she heard him describe her involvement as _inspired._

The camp moved in an orderly routine, moving around each other effortlessly. Ser Ulrich and two of the four Templars had received not-insignificant wounds. She tended to those first, then moved on to hitching the horses while the men fetched wood and water. But something wasn’t right. Her teeth were on edge, and she could swear that the bush in the northern corner twitched just a touch too hard for wildlife.

“Ser Ulrich?” she called, reaching for her staff, still strapped to her back. Her Spirit Blade hilt was still tucked safely in her belt. “Ser Ulrich, I think there’s something out there.”

Ulrich was suddenly on high alert, his piercing blue eyes scanning the forest. She could hear the men snort with derision—just a jumpy girl, a mage who had no business being outside the tower—but Ulrich knew better.

Sure enough, no sooner than he turned his eyes towards the trees, something was lobbed at them from the foliage. Emma approached carefully, wary of the swirling, red-hot center. She approached just close enough to see a magical fuse burning down. _Antivan Fire!_

“Grenade!” she shouted, scrambling away from the little bomb. It was too late. A white hot explosion ripped through the air. She could barely get her barrier up in time before flames licked at her front. Her armor blackened under the heat, and the impact sent her flying. She landed on her back, the ringing in her ears deafening before blackness licked at the edges of her vision. Her breathing came in labored gasps as she desperately tried to hold her barrier before the heat overtook her and the world went dark.

~~~

The Red Lion hunting band could hear the explosion for miles. Krem was the first to respond, looking to Cullen, his commander and Thane, for orders. Cullen narrowed his amber eyes, fletching the huge arrow to his equally huge hunting bow. That explosion would have scared off any prey, but now…

Now he was curious.

Using a series of silent signals, he ordered the party into the valley, towards the clearing near the river. If he was lucky, he wouldn’t find the lowlander Mage hunters engaged with their quarry. He would hate to draw their ire—they were so testy about mages amongst the Avvar.

“By the Mountain-Father!” Alistair, his hunting partner and second in command, breathed.

Cullen shared his friend’s reaction. The level of carnage was unreal, and spoke to more violence than they anticipated. In the center of the clearing was a blackened ring; embers glowed where the flames were still fresh. The charred, ruined bodies of horses and men alike lay scattered about the epicenter. Cullen dropped into a defensive posture, switching out his bow for a sword.

Upon closer inspection, the men were the mage hunters. Their bodies and features were blackened and burned beyond all recognition, but the distinctive sword sigil on their chest plates couldn’t mark them as anything else. Cullen had to shake his head.

“Poor bastards,” he growled, rolling his shoulders. Despite what he’d seen in his life, one never got used to his type of bloodshed.

“Cullen!” Alistair shouted from outside the blackened ring. A lone figure, smaller than the others, lay at his feet. Judging by the shape, it was a girl or possibly a young woman. “Cullen, she’s alive!”

The Thane strode to his second, taking in the girl at his feet. He kneeled to push her hair—miraculously intact—out of her face. She moaned in pain and rolled her head towards him, and he felt his breath hitch. Her eyes were fluttering, desperately trying to stay open—they were the strangest shade he’d ever seen on a human. They were _so blue_ , like a clear summer sky… and ringed by dark lashes brushing against high-boned features. He ran his thumb through the soot against her cheekbone, revealing a delicate, pale blue tattoo.

“Should we leave her?” Karras, one of his more brutal compatriots, asked. “Seems their valuables were destroyed in the blast.”

“What could cause something like this?” Krem asked, wandering in and amongst the bodies.

Cullen inspected the woman’s scalp through her blonde hair—paler even than Rosalie’s—and seeing no significant injury, scooped her into his arms. She whimpered pitifully at the sudden movement, but she was limp. Whatever strength she had was gone, for now.

“Take whatever you can find,” Cullen ordered. “We’ll take her to the camp, and the Hold in the morning.”

She was heavier than she looked, which was probably the fine armor she was wearing, but she curled in towards his chest, even in her sleep. He couldn’t believe how young she was, barely five or six years his junior. He inspected the staff that had fallen next to her, but the blast had ruined it, turning most of the wooden haft to ash. He did recover the crystal from its top, along with a mostly-intact leather satchel, but little else. The horses were dead, and most of the supplies were within the blast radius. Karras did manage to recover a few of the saddle bags, but little else.

Cullen made his way back towards the camp, listening carefully to the girl in his arms. Her breath came unevenly, but he distinctly heard a barely cogent whisper; “Thank you.”

~~~

Emma woke feeling like someone had kicked in her head and then stuffed her mouth with sawdust. Every inch of her ached, but she was on a relatively comfortable bed, and the blankets were heavy and warm. She was warmer than she’d been in weeks; she would have to speak to Ser Ulrich about this inn, and possibly see if they could stay in it again on their return to Ostwick.

She cracked her eyes open, but the ceiling was unfamiliar—exposed thatching? She gripped at the blankets below her and they weren’t blankets but…furs. She shot up with a sharp gasp, immediately regretting the action when the agony stabbed into her side. She couldn’t suppress the little breathless gasp of pain as she curled in on herself, trying to stop the throbbing.

“Ah, she lives!”

Emma whirled towards the voice in the corner and…halted. He was tall, with rosy skin and uneven, ginger hair cropped short. He should have been terrifying with his rippling muscles, thick neck and powerful arms, but his mirthful hazel eyes and bright (almost sardonic) smile put her at ease. She tried her best to look him in those eyes and not gawp at the rest of him—which was bare safe for breeches, boots, and a drape of fur around his shoulders. She grew up in the Circle—she’d never seen a man in this state of undress before. She clutched the furs to her chest, trying to protect her own modesty.

“Where,” she squeaked. She had to clear her throat a couple times to dislodge the nervous lump that had formed. “Where am I?”

“Red Lion Hold,” the man answered simply, as if she should know what that means. He quirked his thick brow at her, his eyes sweeping over the crisscross of bandages covering most of her skin. “You caused quite a stir—it was certainly a romantic image; the Thane carrying a young, wounded girl through the Hold. I’m sure Karras will be pleased.”

“I’m confused,” Emma said, leaning against the provided pillows. “Thane? That means… that means you’re Avvar.”

“You’ve heard of us,” the man replied sardonically. He gave a little bow at the waist, his demeanor jovial if a little mocking. “I’m flattered.”

“I’ve studied pre-Andrastian cultures, particularly the Alamarri,” Emma said pointedly. She flushed. “I apologize, that came out wrong.”

“No offense taken. So tell me, lowlander; what’s a group of Mage hunters doing this far in the wilds?”

Emma bit her lip, looking away from the Avvar man; “I can’t tell you.”

“Why not?” he asked, tilting his head in askance.

“It’s… complicated,” she answered shortly. “Personal.”

The man shrugs his massive shoulders; “All right. Suit yourself. Our Thane will want to see you. I’ll fetch him.”

“Actually,” Emma called, turning gingerly in her bed. “I was hoping to get out, anyway. Is it possible I can… go to him?”

The man smirked; “Sure. Here, let me help.”

He took such care, and despite the hard calluses on his hands he was so gentle. He draped a rough-spun wool robe around her shoulders, carefully guiding her arms through the sleeves. A pang of nostalgia hit when she realized she had one just like it in her early teens at the Circle. She gingerly put her weight on her feet, scandalized by her bare legs, but she could barely bend, let alone put on breeches and she would be damned if this strange man helped her with _that._

“You know,” she quipped, grasping his wrist for stability. “You Avvar are a lot more gentlemanly than I was taught. I was always told barbarians would swoop upon me, stealing everything from my coins to my maidenhead.”

The man let out a bark of warm laughter; “No, we don’t swoop. Swooping is _bad._ ”

Emma laughed easily, leaning into him as he guided her into the Hold; “I’m Emma, by the way. Emma Trevelyan.”

“Alistair,” he replied warmly. “Alistair ar Maric Red Lion.”

“Charmed,” Emma shot back.

Walking turned out to be more strenuous than she anticipated, so they picked their way across the hold in silence. Red Lion Hold was in full swing; women in simple dresses, often draped in furs, worked outside their simple homes. Children wove in and out of the houses, playing games she didn’t understand. It seemed just… a regular village. She didn’t understand why she thought it would be otherwise.

Alistair led her to a massive hall with rough-hewn wood and a thatched roof. Two carved lions flanked the door, and she could hear angry voices from within.

“Uh oh,” she heard Alistair murmur. “Seems Karras is at it again.”

“Karras?”

“Nothing you need to be concerned about,” Alistair answered with a gentle pat to her loose hair. I was a strangely…comforting gesture. “Come on. Thane Dawnbringer has wanted to see you for a few days now.”

She was lead through the leather covering the doorway, and Alistair took no time in making his presence known.

“Thane!” he called.

“Through here, Alistair,” a low, gruff voice returned.

Emma was led into a huge hall; stone braziers and low tables dotted the room, and the dirt floor was covered with pelts. Sitting at a high table at the aft of the chamber was a man. He could only be the Thane—his easy confidence and rustic-regal demeanor could only be that of a leader. Golden curls were combed away from a ruggedly-handsome face, trimmed save for the two long plaits that brushed his shoulders. His broad shoulders and chiseled torso were left bare, golden hair disappearing into dark leather breeches. Black fur ringed his shoulders and draped over his chest. His amber eyes regarded her with a heat that sent curls of foreign desire shooting through her core, but there was also… concern? He was easily the most handsome man she’d ever laid eyes on, and she couldn’t help the way her eyes widened, as if to better take him in.

“Emma Trevelyan, meet Thane Dawnbringer.”

“Cullen ar Mara Red Lion,” Dawnbringer said smoothly, his scarred lips curling into a soft smile. “Welcome to Red Lion Hold, Emma.”


	2. I Declare You Apostate

She was pretty when he’d carried her to the healers’ hut, curled into his chest like some romantic damsel. Her rounded cheeks and long lashes made for an ethereal picture, and he couldn’t ignore the pouty, pink lips, but that was all he had time to notice before the healers ushered him out. All that night, he’d dreamed about those eyes… he’d never seen anything like it.

Now? Now she stood before him, commanding and confident despite her state of undress and bare feet. Her armor had done _nothing_ to hint at the curvy, full-hipped figure that lay beneath it, but the robe she wore left nothing to the imagination. Her pale blonde hair—the color of corn silk—fell to her waist, brushing the curve of her spine. Her fine features were schooled into unruffled poise. He tried to keep his eyes on her face, but he couldn’t stop his gaze from flickering to those creamy thighs. Despite the softness, though, she looked strong.

“It is an honor to be welcomed,” she said smoothly, approaching the platform.

There was a hitch in the sway of her hips—she was favoring her left leg. He could also see the tremble in her posture. Holding herself straight and tall was a strain on her broken ribs. He admired that, but he didn’t want her to strain herself.

“Lass, there’s no need for formalities,” he sighed, rising from his seat and meeting her halfway.

In his boots, he towered over her. Easily a head-and-a-half taller, by far. She met his eyes evenly, but he could see the flush work its way across her cheeks when he invaded her space. He took a half-step back, knowing the issue lowlanders had with that sort of thing. He was close enough he could smell the faint scent of honeysuckle clinging to her hair; he heard her breath hitch and could see the pulse jump in her throat. He reached out to touch, resting his large hand on her shoulder. He watched her pupils blow wide—with fear or lust he didn’t know—and her tongue darted out to wet her lips.

_Lust, then._

“My name is Emma Trevelyan, Knight Enchanter for the Ostwick Circle of Magi,” she stepped back from him to bow formally, though she wasn’t able to complete it without wincing, clutching at her injured side.

He tilted his head in askance; “Then I have many questions for you, lass. But you certainly must have some for me.”

“Why did you want to see me?” she asked, dropping her polite veneer for a moment.

He smirked at her, taking advantage of her openness; “Who wouldn’t want to see you, lass?”

She flushed deeply, her mouth opening and closing soundlessly. He felt a chuckle build deep in his chest—dark and guttural. He curled a finger under her chin, her mouth closing with a _click._ The movement extended her neck, exposing her long pale throat to him. In a brief moment of weakness, he dared a skim of his knuckles over her throat, watching her pulse jump erratically. In that instant, he thanked whatever foresight he had that Alistair was with her, or he may have pushed the girl into the furs that littered the floor and ravish her, his grip bruising those legs of hers. For a split second, he imagined how those legs would feel thrown over his shoulders.

_Would she taste as sweet as she smelled?_

“I apologize,” he murmured, his voice low and throaty. She shuddered at the barest touch. “I wanted to make sure you were unharmed. When we came upon you, you weren’t in the best condition.”

She gasped; “Ser Ulrich? The other Knights? Are they here?”

“No lass,” he answered. “You were the only survivor. We only found you because an explosion drew our hunting band to you.”

“The Antivan Fire,” she spat, vehemence darkening her eyes. “Thane Dawnbringer, I was wondering if you knew where my possessions were, or anything found on my band.”

“Your possessions are at my home,” he offered, taking great effort to draw his hand away from her. Her skin was warm and soft, a slight sunburned flush across her cheeks. He found himself wanting to press into her shoulder, tasting her, smelling her, drawing out the sounds she would make.

He put a lid on that rush of primal need at her wince; was he being too obvious? He knew the lowlanders were squeamish about sex and contact. For a moment he worried he’d offended her.

“Is it,” she cleared her throat, shifting from one foot to the other. “Is your home far?”

“No,” he answered. He quirked his brow at her sudden grimace. She was putting most of her weight on her good ankle. “How’s that ankle?”

“It’s fine,” she answered just a touch too quickly. She shifted, but couldn’t contain the wince of pain. “Shouldn’t be an issue. I can… walk slow.”

Cullen chuckled, shaking his head; “You sure you’re a lowlander? You’re certainly as stubborn as… some women I know.”

“Is that so?” she asked coquettishly. “Do tell, Thane Dawnbringer.”

“Please,” he asked, swinging her into his powerful arms. He was mindful of her ribs and ankle as she settled against his chest; the flush on her face and the soft, indignant sputters brought a wide grin to his face. “Call me Cullen.”

“All right,” she concurred, sliding her arms around his neck (for stability, he convinced himself). “Cullen, then. If you stop calling me ‘lass’.”

“Do you have a problem with it?” he asked, shouldering out the door and starting down the road.

“We had a Senior Enchanter from Starkhaven call me that a lot,” Emma mused. “He was old enough to be my father, and yet he was a total lecher.”

Cullen laughed at that; “Well, then. I’ll call you something else.”

“Like what?” she asked, tilting her head in a way that told him she had _no idea_ how endearing it was.

_By the Mountain-Father, she’s beautiful._

“I’ll have to think on it,” he replied, clearing his throat. He was overwhelmed with everything about her—especially the whisper-soft tickle of her long hair against his arms and chest.

_Rosalie is going to love her hair._

“This is quite the romantic image, Thane,” she quipped, leaning dramatically into his shoulder.

“You fantasize about being carried off by a barbarian?” he shot back, shifting her in his arms.

“Well, it’s in all my novels about it.” He couldn’t tell if she was serious or not, and that thought sent curls of heat through his core. “But it’s less this and more being tossed over a shoulder to be ravished.”

“You want me to toss you over my shoulder and ravish you?”

“Hmm,” she put a long finger against her full, lower lip. Cullen allowed his gaze to drop, staring intently at the petal-pink pout. “Talk to me when my ribs heal.”

~~~

_Maker’s Breath, if grandmother could see me now!_

She’d never been the shy, retiring type—the Knight Commander never would have noticed her potential that way. One thing that had always stuck with her, through all her years at the circle, had been her propriety. Her indestructible _Grandmere_ would balk at how forward she was being with this _barbarian._

But Cullen seemed… almost gentlemanly. She’d seen proper men of society act less chivalrous than the Thane. His smile melted her insides, and that scar was so enticing—she wanted nothing more than to trace its shape with her tongue. His laugh was honey to her ears, and she wanted to see what _other_ kinds of sounds he could make. She felt a flush work its way across her chest, and if the slight darkening of his honey-brown eyes was any indicator, he noticed. She’d need to a put a stop to these thoughts _quickly,_ as they appeared to be approaching his house.

The Thane’s home was only slightly bigger than the rest. A practical garden blossomed next to the entry way and a dog appeared to be loafing around the back, but what surprised her the most was the lattice covered in flowers. They were wild, somewhat unkempt, and native to the area, including a massively overgrown Crystal Grace plant.

Cullen gently set her on her feet with a grin before opening the door; “Please, come in. Your things are in the back.”

“Thank you,” Emma stepped in after him only to be nearly bowled over by a blonde woman about her height.

“Cullen!” she exclaimed, grasping Emma’s hands in hers. “Is this her? Really? Oh, my he was right! Your eyes _are_ lovely!”

“Rosalie!” a slightly older, equally blonde woman appeared in the doorway of the kitchen. “Don’t crowd her!”

“Sorry,” the girl who must be Rosalie stepped back. “I’m Rosalie!”

“She probably gathered that, Rose,” the other woman quirked a brow at Emma’s bare legs. “Cullen, the least you could have done was get the girl some proper clothes before having her traipse through the hold.”

“Lady Trevelyan, I would like to introduce you to my younger sisters, Mia and Rosalie.” There was a well-worn smirk on his face as he nodded towards each of them in turn. “Like I said, you caused quite the stir.”

“You must be here for your possessions,” Mia said, holding open the door to the back-most room. “Come, and maybe we’ll get you into some real clothes.”

“That would be nice,” Emma had to laugh. The Thane’s family was exuberant, curly-haired, and vibrant. They rather reminded her of her own siblings.

She felt a shard of ice wedge itself in her chest, but she pushed the pain down. _Maintain control. Breathe. You’re fine._ If the concerned tilt to Cullen’s brow was any indicator, the brief flash of pain she felt was visible on her face. And he noticed.

_Damn it._

She distracted herself by picking through her possessions. Her satchel was intact, and so was everything in it at first glance. Her staff hadn’t survived the blast, but she did find the sapphire crystal she’d kept in the top. She also found her Spirit Blade hilt, which she promptly tucked into the belt of her robe, determined to not be separated from it again. Once she took stock of her things, she moved on to the Templars’ belongings…and felt horror set in. She checked and double checked and checked again but…

_It’s not here!_

“Is something wrong?”

She whirled towards the voice, slightly embarrassed she’d been caught off guard; “Cullen! You scared me.”

“Apologies,” he replied softly. “Is something missing?”

“Yes,” she said, feeling the dread rise in her chest. “You didn’t happen to find a little phial? It would have been on a chain and had… liquid in it?”

“No, we found nothing like that,” he answered. “Why? Was it important?”

Important!? It was her Phylactery for Andraste’s sake! If the Knight Commander tried to find her, best case scenario it would lead them to the ruined campsite where, if she was correct in assuming, the Templars’ charred and ruined bodies would be waiting. Worst case, and most like scenario, it was broken and she would look the guilty party. She could hear a desperate gasping sound and she felt light headed. It took a minute for her to realize the sound was her.

“Emma, breathe,” she heard distantly. Rough hands cupped her cheeks, callused thumbs running under her eyes, wiping away the panicked tears. “What’s wrong?”

“My phylactery!” she gasped, and knowing he didn’t understand the term at his confused glance. “I have to go!”

“What? You can’t,” Cullen wrapped a big hand around her upper arm. Under any other circumstances, she would marvel at the fact his thumb and forefinger _almost_ touched. “You’re injured, and you’re here under my protection. You’re safe.”

“You don’t understand,” she pleaded. “I’ve put you and your people in danger!”

“How?”

Before she could answer, she heard a scuffle from outside the house.

“Hakkon’s axe!” she could hear Mia swear from the front room. “Cullen! Mage hunters!”

“They have no power in Red Lion Hold,” Cullen growled. He moved towards the front door, his teeth gritted angrily. “What are they doing here?”

“They’re here for me,” Emma replied quietly, shocked at the calm in her own voice.

“Knight Enchanter, Emma Trevelyan!” she heard a familiar voice call from outside the hut.

“They’re here for me,” she repeated evenly. Despite the fact she was in a robe, she strode into the street and, sure enough, four full-regalia Templars menacingly blocked the road. The other team. The Knight Captain turned his mean, beady eyes on her; a triumphant, smug sneer on his face. “Knight Captain Hadley, I stand ready.”

“Knight Enchanter Emma Trevelyan,” he drawled, savoring the sentence like a fine confection. “I declare you apostate, and hereby place you under arrest.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks very much to my beta, [broodywolf](http://archiveofourown.org/users/broodywolf/pseuds/broodywolf). Also thanks to my skype group! Couldn't do this without you


	3. You Will Doom Us All

Emma froze, unable to process it. _Apostate._

No! The Circle was her _home._ She couldn’t… She’d faithfully served the Templars! She’d brought her own people, her _kind_ , as some of the more bigoted knights would call them, back to their Circles to face punishment. No matter what that punishment could be. He couldn’t do this to her.

“Please, Knight Captain!” she pleaded, urgently trying to sound sincere. She heard the catch in her own voice, but she couldn’t soften it. Her heart raced in her chest. Maker, she would drop to her knees and beg in the street if she had to.  “I did not run!”

“Your Phylactery was destroyed, and we found your band slaughtered in the woods,” Hadley shot back. Alrik, one of the Knights (and a nasty piece of work, if she remembered correctly) smiled sadistically when he sensed her desperation. “What are we _supposed_ to believe?”

“We were attacked by our quarry,” Emma answered honestly, trying to slip into her professional manner. She may be a mage, begging for her life, but she was a _Templar,_ damn it. She felt a warm hand on her hip, and the touch grounded her. Cullen stood behind her, big and imposing, but somehow comforting. She could smell pine, which clung to him to make a heady, masculine scent. It was reassuring, and it kept her grounded enough to plead her case and keep her fear at bay. “I was injured and taken in by the Red Lion clan.”

Hadley paused for a moment, maybe— _maybe_ —almost convinced of her innocence. For a brief moment, she felt she could _actually_ return with them; take up her mantle and her cause once more. She could find the actual apostates, bring them to justice, and return home. But his look was fleeting, and instantly replaced with hardened resolve.

_No._

“Emma Trevelyan, I charge you with apostasy, conspiracy, and murder,” he said coolly and evenly, striding towards her evenly.”

“What?” she balked.

_They think I worked with the apostates. They think I killed Gerhardt!_

“Your service with the Templars promises you a trial,” Hadley gripped her wrist in a bruising grasp. She could actually feel her bones grind in his hand. She saw his eyes flicker towards Cullen, who was tense behind her. “I can promise no more.”

“Hadley, please!” she begged, fighting him every step of the way. She was strong, but he was stronger and heavier. She stumbled forward, only just catching herself before she pitched forward. “Hadley, why would I be parse to the murder of the Knight Commander?”

“Hope the Maker has mercy on your soul and we only make you Tranquil, for you will find no clemency with me,” Hadley spat, yanking her forward. “I suppose it serves Ulrich right for consenting to _mages_ in his party.”

Tranquility? She felt herself go pale; the buzz of the Avvar’s voices around her faded to a dull hum. She’d passed her Harrowing years ago! It was against Chantry law! They were going to put her to the brand; she knew it. Alrik was giving her a nasty look; a dark-skinned Knight turned away, as if he couldn’t watch.

“Ser Barris, please!” she turned to him, tears streaming down her face. “We trained together, grew up together! You _know_ me! I would never hurt Gerhardt!”

“Knight Captain,” Barris interjected. “Perhaps we—.”

With a deafening crack, Hadley’s hand slapped across Emma’s face. The force sent her to the ground; she clutched the offended cheek, the pain so great she could barely breathe.

“Demons ride her words,” Hadley snapped, reaching for her again. “Remain vigilant, Barris.”

She heard a overprotective growl somewhere behind her before an iron-hard arm clutched around her shoulders; “Take your _hands_ off of her!”

A strange stillness fell over the scene. Neither Hadley nor Emma made a move; Cullen had lifted her, holding her tight to his side. His fingers digging into her forearm were _protective._ Strong. In a way, he was claiming her.

“Step back. This is none of your concern,” Hadley hissed.

“You will _not_ touch her,” Cullen growled, as fierce as the great cat his clan was named for.

“She is an apostate, and she will be taken to the Circle for trial. You will not stop us, _barbarian._ ”

“You have no power here, _mage hunter,_ ” Cullen snarled. His voice was deadly-quiet, and his hand curled around her. “Leave, lest you bring the wrath of Red Lion on you.”

“You have no right to her.”

“I am the Thane of Red Lion Hold!” Cullen roared, towering over Hadley. “And this woman is my rightfully stolen bride!”

The sort of cacophonous silence that follows a declaration of war fell over the hold. _His bride?_ Emma shook in his grasp; her knees trembled dangerously. He pulled her in more tightly, bracing her against his big body.

“You can’t--,” Hadley sputtered.

“He can,” Barris said smoothly. “We have no sovereignty amongst the Avvar. Their Thane has asked us to leave, and we must obey.”

Hadley turned his eyes on Emma; she froze like a prey animal; “Know this, _Trevelyan._ Leave this Hold, step one foot into Ferelden proper, and you are ours. If you’re _lucky,_ you’ll get the Brand.”

With a smooth motion, Hadley signaled his Templars, and they marched out of the Hold. Alistair came barreling down the street, huge bow in hand. The people around them started their excited and concerned murmurs almost instantly. Cullen was suddenly in front of her, brushing her hair back from her face with gentle fingers. His calluses brushed over the corner of her lip, lingering on her swollen cheek.

“Are you alright?” he asked softly, his voice belying the rage it held mere seconds ago.

Emma couldn’t speak. She was so taken by shock—he’d _defended_ her. He’d stood against the templars and held his ground, possibly bringing the wrath of the Divine Herself on his people. Tears sprung to her eyes, and with gentle hands he wiped them away.

“Why?” she managed a ragged whisper, leaning into his touch.

“No need to worry,” he gave her a soft smile, cupping her face in his big hands. He pressed his forehead to hers. “They can’t hurt you.”

Softer, slimmer hands were on her arms, inspecting her cheek. Mia was suddenly inspecting her, taking note of her face.

“Mia, take her into the house,” Cullen said softly.

“Dawnbringer, you’ll want to meet with the warriors.”

“Yes, Alistair, I’ll meet you there.” He turned to Emma, skimming his knuckles down the side of her neck, sending shivers through her core. “Lass, go with Mia. I’ll return to you tonight. I promise.”

Emma nodded mutely, swallowing the lump in her throat. Cullen pressed his lips to her forehead, holding her close; the heated intensity in his eyes when he pulled away, allowing his hands to linger, cut through the shock long enough for Mia to herd her into the house.

Once she was seated at the table, Mia pressed a cool cloth into her hand; “Here, put this against your cheek.”

Emma sighed when the chilled fabric soothed against her heated skin. She absently ran her tongue along the inside of her teeth, looking for missing teeth. Thankfully, there didn’t seem to be any lasting damage. She distinctly smelled Dawn Lotus infusing the cloth, and for that she was grateful. She began to relax, the medicinal herb working its magic and bringing down her swelling. Mia, on the other hand, was the exact antithesis of relaxed. She’d grabbed one of her plates and appeared to be attempting to scrub the pattern off the edges, muttering under her breath.

“Mia?” Emma asked, her tongue feeling thick and heavy in her mouth. _Ah. That would be the Dawn Lotus._

“Yes?” the other woman snapped before seeming to remember where she was. “Oh, I’m sorry, Emma. Are you OK?”

“Yes. Hadley hit me hard but I’ll live,” she replied, shifting the cloth to a cool edge. “I’m a little more worried about you. You seem…troubled.”

“Oh, it’s just my brother,” Mia sighed, moving to a large trunk and rummaging through it loudly. “He doesn’t _think_. He just _does._ And it’s going to get him killed.”

Emma felt her heart pound in her chest—something told her Mia’s approval was important to Cullen, and that she could make or break Emma’s future. She didn’t necessarily _want_ to be married to Cullen—she’d have to ask him what ‘rightfully stolen bride’ was supposed to mean—but it seemed it would be the only way she would live to the end of the year intact. Deep in her musings, she didn’t notice Mia pressing a rough-spun dress into her hands.

“Put this on, child,” Mia ordered. “I’ll see if I can fetch you some boots. We can’t have you running around barefoot, now can we?”

Her voice and eyes were hard, but her smile was soft and kind. Emma felt at ease around this woman, whose gentle fingers helped her into the dress. She was mindful of Emma’s injuries as she laced up the front. While she hunted down a pair of boots that would fit her, Emma set to combing out her long hair, twisting it into a simple knot at the base of her neck. The routine was comforting to her, and it gave her time to think.

Any other warrior, and she could almost understand. From what she understood of the Avvar, the farther away a woman’s home, the more prized she was. Legends of barbarians descending into the villages and stealing girls were legion in the Free Marches—especially in the sinfully smutty literature the Senior Enchanters could never seem to eradicate. But Cullen? He was their _Thane._ A man with a name like Dawnbringer was a hero, treasured, and most likely sought after. He wanted something from her. She was positive he didn’t just want to ravage her—few would risk the Templars’ wrath for sex. So what was it?

Mia returned with a pair of soft boots, and Emma took her opportunity; “Mia, why did Cullen declare me his bride?”

“I’m not sure,” Mia answered, gently pushing one of Emma’s curls back into place.

“You said… you said he could get himself killed?”

“Oh sweet summer child, I don’t think you would kill him. You have too much honor.”

“You don’t approve of him taking a foreign bride?”

“No. Trust me, it has nothing to do with you,” Mia sighed deeply, twisting her skirt in her fingers. “Something dark is stirring in Red Lion Hold, and I fear Cullen may have revealed a weakness.”

“Which is?”

“You.”

~~~

“With all due respect, my Thane,” Karras snarled. “You’re a fool. You risk the lowlander mage hunters? For _her?_ ”

“I risk the lowlander mage hunters for the good of this clan!” Cullen shot back, his voice a low growl. “Not some girl.”

_She’s more than just some girl, you ass._ Cullen shook his head sharply to silence his inner voice. The one that couldn’t stop thinking of the way her skin felt under his lips, or the way her eyes darkened when she leaned into his touch, or the silken fall of her hair against his hands. He didn’t have _time_ to think about something like this. Karras wasn’t happy with this turn of events, and judging by the outrage from some of his other warriors, he was not the only one.

“You’ve doomed us all!” Karras shouted, crossing his arms stubbornly.

“This isn’t up for debate, Karras,” Cullen snarled, resisting the urge to pinch the bridge of his nose.

“Why shelter her in the first place? What could happen if we just gave her over? Our troubles would be over,” one of the younger warriors interjected.

“Alistair?” Cullen turned to his friend. “Care to step in?”

The other man gave Cullen a smirk that spoke very clearly—they would talk about this later. But for now, Alistair stood in solidarity; “Take it from experience, the mage hunters will not stop with one. We hand her to them gladly, suddenly they come looking for our mages. Would you so merrily hand your own over to them? To be imprisoned in their towers?”

“If the fate of Swift Fox is to be believed,” Cullen began, his voice low and grim. “Giving the girl to the mage hunters could be fatal to Red Lion. I will not turn an innocent over to their brutality.”

It seemed to be the final word on the matter; Karras left the hall in a huff, and the other warriors trickled out behind him. Soon, only Alistair remained.

“She must be terrified,” he helpfully supplied. “How are you?”

“Honestly?” Cullen retorted, smirking at his friend. “I’m not sure.”

“What has you so hung up on this lowlander?” Alistair asked.

Cullen thought on it for a moment; yes, she was beautiful, but it was beyond that. She had an easy confidence that made him want to _dominate_ her; to press her back into something soft and lap at the seam of her mouth until she mewled with pleasure. He wanted to pry her open, sinking sword-rough fingers into the molten clench of her body, drawing ecstatic babbling cries from her until everyone for miles knew she _belonged_ to him. He wanted to touch and mark every inch of her, to shatter her under him, sucking and touching while he struggled not to _bite._

The truth of the matter was he couldn’t remember the last time he was this affected by someone; someone had started to crack the hardened shell he’d pulled around himself until now. And he wanted _more._


	4. I Would Very Much Like To Kiss You

Cullen wouldn’t return until very late, according to Mia. So Emma took the time she had to take stock of her situation. She found her satchel and emptied it on the bed, noting which of her possessions survived the blast. The first thing she noticed was her lyrium supply was dangerously low—less than a week’s worth of doses, and that’s if she was careful.

“Shit.”

She was under no illusion that her lyrium philters were anything more than her leash. Yes, it gave her a measure of magical resistance, but beyond that it did nothing but permanently tie her to the Chantry. In that moment, she knew why Hadley had given up so easily—he must have known.

She had very few options. Several times in the field, she’d gone for a stretch without lyrium without issue. She could possibly make this last for a while, but it seemed her only long-term option without turning herself in was quitting all together. Her whole body rebelled at the very thought, her fingers going cold, but she knew in her heart it had to be done. She snapped the lid of her kit closed and set it aside… for emergencies, she told herself.

Putting those dark thoughts aside, she made note of her other possessions. Her clothes had been destroyed in the fire, but she was thankful a few sentimental items seemed to be intact: her travel chess set; her journal and writing kit; her mother-of-pearl comb she’d received for her 18th birthday; her silver snowdrop pendant and a few other small jewelry pieces; the novel she’d been reading. Unfortunately, that seemed to be it. All that was left of her life at the circle. Thought fondly of the items she’d left in her quarters when she’d been sent on assignment—her cosmetics case, her letters from her family, the remainder of her jewelry… her life was in the Circle. Her friends lived there, her family came to see her, she had a team she was fond of… life wasn’t perfect, but it meant _something_ to her. 12 years of loyal and faithful service and now?

She sighed heavily, leaning against the sumptuously thick furs that draped over the bed. From what little she knew of Cullen, she felt she could discern… this was _his_ room. Not only did his distinctly masculine scent cling to the pillows and sheets, but it looked like he lived here, if that made sense. In a sudden flight of mischievous fancy, she decided to snoop. The room wasn’t large—mostly dominated by the large bed. It seemed lavish for the man to have his own room when it seemed most of his people had single-room houses, but she supposed as the leader he was afforded certain luxuries.

He was an organized man—everything from his clothes to his extra blankets to his whetstone had it’s assigned place. He favored dark, rich colors. He had an earthenware jar full of beeswax (which made her giggle a bit—who knew the rugged Avvar man would have a vain side?)  but what really drew her attention was the small chest under the bed. It wasn’t exactly _hidden_ , nor was it locked, but something about it scream ‘private’. She was so curious, but when movement outside the door made her practically jump from her skin, she figured maybe she shouldn’t be nosy.

Mia came striding through, shooting Emma a sardonic look that told her the other woman knew exactly what she was doing; “Cullen is on his way home. I brought you something. It will help with your injuries.”

“I’m fine,” Emma tried to brush her off, but couldn’t contain the sharp gasp when she put too much weight on her injured ankle. A new pinch was developing in her shoulder, too, and that never boded well.

Mia raised her eyebrows skeptically;”I’m so sure. Here, just drink it. You’ll feel better.”

Emma gave an experimental sniff of the concoction; it was strong and sweet smelling, with a slight medicinal tang to it. She gave it a sip and nearly recoiled— _Maker, that’s strong._ The effects were pleasant and instantaneous.

“Why do I suddenly feel sleepy?” she slurred, wavering unsteadily on her feet.

“Because I laced it with Spindleweed, sweet girl,” Mia said softly, brushing Emma’s hair away from her face in an affectionate gesture. Emma sucked in a sharp, serrated gasp, her eyes wide with panic. “Relax. It’s just enough to knock you out for a few hours. You’ve had a hard day, and sleep helps healing bodies.”

“But, Cullen will—.”

“Ssh,” Mia admonished, laying Emma under the covers. The edges of her vision was blurring; she was having trouble staying conscious. She could have sworn Mia’s hands were almost _affectionate._ “Cullen will be home soon. You’ll get your answers. I promise.”

Emma realized she only had one option—trust Mia and sleep. She was surrounded by Cullen’s smell, and combined with the warmth of his blankets, she fell into a fast, comfortable sleep.

~~~

Mia was perched at their table, which was never a good sign. She was sipping tea, rubbing at an imaginary smudge on the immaculate surface. Rosalie was nowhere to be found, and the house was strangely quiet.

“Mia, where’s Emma?” he asked, draping his furs over the back of a chair.

“She’s sleeping,” Mia answered frankly.

Cullen sighed, a strange wave of disappointment clutching at his chest; “Is she alright?”

“She’s fine, Cullen,” Mia shot him a sardonic smile, covering his hand with hers. “I can’t believe what you did today.”

“Not you too, Mia,” Cullen groaned, pinching the bridge of his nose.

“Cullen, I’m sure you got an earful from the warriors, but allow me to say my piece,” Mia straightened her shoulders and, for a moment, looked so much like their mother, Cullen very nearly flinched. “What you did today was noble, but it was also foolish, brother. Something wicked stirs in the Hold, and you may have put Emma into more danger than you realize.”

“You don’t approve?” Cullen asked, furrowing his brow.

“Of your actions? No,” she answered shortly, cradling her cup. “Of her? I don’t know; I haven’t spent a lot of time with her. But she seems honorable and noble and strong. _If_ you go through with this, she would be a strong Lady of Red Lion. Now go to your woman; she’s in _your_ bed.”

Cullen felt his breath catch. _His bed. She’s in his bed._ He cleared his throat, sweeping out of the kitchen into the back room and, sure enough, there she was. Bathed in the moonlight, her hair a silver swath over the dark furs, she looked strangely vulnerable. And yet, it was also domestic. He imagined it, maybe a few months from now, coming home to _her._ To rolling her over as she slowly came awake, watching those lovely eyes flicker open, seeing them darken with lust when he crushed her lips with his, working out the stress of the day.

She sighed in her sleep, rolling over and exposing the long line of her throat. She appeared to be wearing a simple, linen shift. He growled low in his throat, desperately trying to get a handle on the animal in him that wanted to press himself into her, taking in as much of her as he could.

He sprawled out next to her, brushing her hair from her face. He itched to hold her properly, press against her warmth and bury himself in her silken locks. He longed to taste, he yearned to feel her skin on his. He chanced a press of his lips against her temple and watched, enraptured, as her eyes fluttered open.

“Cullen,” she murmured sleepily. She gave him an affectionate smile that was somehow shy and flirtatious. “You’re back.”

“I am, sweet girl,” he sighed, almost embarrassed by how dreamy his voice sounded. He couldn’t stop touching her, watching the shivers rack her body when he trailed a finger up her spine.

“Is everything OK?” she whispered, arching into his touch, pressing her generous breasts into his chest.

“Yes, the warriors are satisfied,” he answered, watching her lips part. Her perfect, pink tongue darted out to wet them, and he stifled a groan. How easy would it be to take her, here and now? In his bed? How quickly he could push her shift up around her hips and rut into her like a beast in heat, claiming her for his own. His eyes flickered to the column of her throat, _aching_ to mar the perfect skin with dark love bites. “I was hoping we could speak, but you seem so exhausted.”

“Mia gave me tea,” she murmured sleepily, stifling a wolfish yawn.

“Ah, then I’ll let you sleep, pet,” he pressed a kiss to her forehead, moving to rise. He would sleep in Bran’s room for the night, as much as every fiber of him begged to stay.

“No wait,” she grasped his wrist in a quick flurry of movement. “Don’t go. Please?”

Her eyes were wide and vulnerable; she’d pulled her bottom lip into her teeth and he couldn’t take his eyes off the perfect pout.

“Very well,” he sighed, shifting onto his elbows. “I’ll stay with you until you fall back asleep.”

Her breath hitched as she pressed closer to him. He couldn’t suppress the groan in his throat when he felt her nipples through the shift. She grinned wickedly and dragged her chest over his stomach, splaying her hands over his shoulders. If she wasn’t so exhausted, he had a feeling she wouldn’t be so forward. It was not the lowlander’s way.

“You like the way I look,” she purred, her breath wafting over his neck. He lifted his chin, allowing her lips to brush against his skin. It was not a question.

“Yes,” he gasped, swallowing hard. He hissed through his teeth when he felt her lips against his pulse point—a chaste little press of her mouth, save for the flicker of her tongue at the end. He couldn’t stop—a man only had so much discipline—as he skimmed his hand over her bare thigh, bunching her shift under his touch, settling in a bruising grip on her hip. He reveled in the little gasp of pleasure she made and he idly wondered what other lovely sounds she could make.

“I like the way you look, Cullen,” she moaned against his neck. He felt more than heard her words. She breathed deep against him, twisting his heart in an odd way. “I like the way you smell. I love your voice.”

“I—what?” he sucked in a sharp breath, trying to keep himself under control.

_Gentle. You have to be gentle._

He loosened his grip by measures; he could feel himself hardening, pressing against his leathers. He felt his hips twitch, trying not to thrust up into his breeches.

She pulled away from him, only to press back in, her eyes heavy and lidded, dark with desire. Her mouth was level with his; he could feel her legs tangled in his blankets, and he wanted nothing more than to feel them any way she would allow.

“I like your scar,” she said softly, and much to his surprise. She leaned forward, her lips a hairsbreadth away from his. He drew in a serrated sigh. _She is so close, you oaf!_ She flickered her tongue out, dragging it over the long scar on his upper lip. Somehow, the lack of sensation made it all the more intense.

He couldn’t handle it anymore. In a swift motion, he had her under him, securing her wrists in his hands. Her arms were bare—the skin soft but the muscles strong and firm. His cock jumped when his knuckles brushed against the edges of her breasts; she let out a soft cry, thrusting her hips towards him. He watched her press her thighs together, and in a fit of longing he dug desperate fingers into the soft, yielding columns of her legs.

“By the mountain-father, but you’re beautiful,” he growled. His palms circled her knees; his breath hitched when her legs fell open for him. Her arousal was clear, if the scent of her was to be believed. She would be wet— _soaking—_ and swollen for him. He could spread her with his thumbs, licking  a long, languid line from her opening to the pearl at the apex of her sex, drawing delicious whines of pleasure. She would taste like honey and _sunlight;_ she’d spill onto his tongue, coating his throat so he would taste her for _days._

“I will take you, Emma,” he groaned, kneeling between her legs, careful to keep the straining line of his cock from the heat of her core. “If you want me, I’ll take you. But not tonight. You’re tired, and I want your full consent when I take you to my bed. I will never take you against your will.”

She gave a little bleat of displeasure and canted her hips once more; he stilled her with a firm hand just below her navel.

“However, I would very much like to kiss you. If you’ll allow it.”

“Please,” she whimpered. She framed his face with her hands, running her thumb over his scar.

He growled, low and guttural, as he lowered his lips to hers. And they were _perfect._ Soft and supple; she parted them, granting him access but he kept their kiss almost painfully shallow. He flickered his tongue against the seam of her mouth, learning its shape over and over, and only when he felt he’d memorized her he delved deeper, pressing down and drinking her in. He skimmed his teeth along her lower lip, swiping his tongue across the area to sooth the sting. He buried his hands in her hair, tilting her head back, exposing her neck.

He skimmed his teeth along the flawless, tasting the saltiness of her sweat. He felt her pulse jump in her throat, and he worked to keep his hips away from hers. He grasped at the fraying edges of his control and it twisted away from him, begging him to slip into that space he knew he would fit so well. The longer his hands were on her, the more she responded to him, the more he felt like a wild animal. The more he wanted to control and conquer and _claim._ It had been _so long_ and now all he wanted was to swallow her little moans like they were the sweetest of treats.

The longer he went, the harder it would be to pull away. He separated himself by degrees, sighing softly when her lips continued to seek his. Lingered on her lips, even the closest embrace not nearly enough. He settled next to her, curling her into his chest. He tried to ignore her lust-blown eyes and kiss-swollen lips or the fact she looked _completely_ debauched. He focused on the way she settled into his arms while he ran his nose along the shell of her ear.

“Go back to sleep,” his voice was a dull rasp, low and thick with desire. “In the morning, I’m all yours.”


	5. Fight Me Lowlander, If You Can

Emma woke feeling more rested than she could recall feeling in years. She woke slowly, piled with warm furs. Her eyes flickered to the window; the sky outside was barely turning blue. She felt remarkably comfortable, nestled into the mattress. Part of her wanted to go back to sleep, but another part knew once the spell of the night was broken, all courage she now had would flee. She knew she had to seek her answers, to maintain this tenuous connection, before night fell that evening.

Or she would have to flee and remove the danger to Red Lion Hold.

She rolled towards the warmth pressing against her back, shifting under the silverite-solid arm thrown carelessly and affectionately over her waist, and found herself curled into the solid chest of what could only be a Desire Demon taken human form. Cullen was quite handsome from what little she’d seen of him, with his full lips pulled into a sardonic smile or his amber eyes glittering with warmth. In sleep, his dark lashes fanned over strong cheekbones; the tiny furrow that had been between his brows at all times had smoothed; his lips were parted and relaxed, begging to be kissed. She rather liked his lips—with the sensually curved cupid’s bow and exquisitely full curve of the lower lip. The scar curving up over one side was _particularly_ alluring; she reached forward, intending to rouse him, and skimmed the pad of her thumb over the jagged line.

He drew in a sharp breath, his eyes opening slowly. He quirked his brow at her, those damnable lips pulling into a smirk that was almost boyish; “The lady awakens. Hopefully, she is more lucid than last night.”

“Oh, Maker, that happened?” Emma groaned, pulling the blanket over her head. “I apologize.”

“No need,” he sighed, stretching hugely, his joints audibly popping in protest. “So, my lady, it seems we must start the day.”

“I was hoping we could…talk,” Emma poked her eyes out to look at him, thankful her flush was covered when she found him gazing at her, his eyes practically liquid with mirth and affection. She averted her stare and made an attempt at flippant humor. “Forgive me, but going from hunting apostates to a criminal to being engaged practically overnight makes for a very rough day.”

Cullen snorted under his breath; “That is fair, my lady. Get dressed; we should speak where we have some privacy.”

“I’d love to, but,” Emma reached over, holding up the dress Mia lent her. “Do you have something that’s _not_ a skirt? I have nothing against skirts; it’s just Fereldan late spring and bare legs don’t exactly mix.”

Cullen rolled his eyes good naturedly before flinging open one of his trunks, pulling out a pair of breeches and a wool shirt; “Here, try these. If you’re too worried about me seeing your bare legs, you can step into the kitchen. Mia _shouldn’t_ be up yet.”

Emma rolled her eyes, yanking off her shift and letting it flutter to the ground. Once she’d shown the aptitude for her chosen profession, she’d spent so much time in the Templar barracks, she was sure her nudity tolerance was somewhere between a healer and a prostitute. She was no longer shy about her own body.

Cullen, on the other hand, seemed enraptured by her bare skin, and she chanced a tease by pulling her sheet of hair over her shoulder, showing off the pale expanse of her back. She bent to step into the fawn-colored breeches, and she heard his breath hitch. She cast a flirtatious look over her shoulder; “Something I can help with, _Thane?”_

The mirth died on her tongue when she saw the intense heat in his eyes, taking her in from her head to her feet. He’d pulled most of his clothes on, but seemed to pause when he saw her. For a brief moment, she feared the moisture gathering between her legs would be visible before she hiked the breeches all the way up her hips.

“Are all lowlanders this brazen?” he asked, the low possessive rasp in his voice dulling the humor slightly.

“Only ones raised in military barracks,” she replied, tugging the indigo tunic over her head. She tied off the waist with a plain linen scarf, tucking her Spirit Blade hilt into the makeshift belt, and stamped into the boots Mia had lent her. “Ready?”

“You were in your peoples’ army?” Cullen asked, holding the door open for her.

“Sort of,” she answered. “I grew up in the Circle, but I spent most of my time with the Templar recruits. The ones you call ‘mage hunters’. Their way of life is very similar to that of a soldier, and that usually means co-ed communal living spaces.”

 “For some reason, I didn’t expect that,” Cullen led her through the misty, largely abandoned Hold. Most everyone was still asleep at this very early hour.

“No one does, when they look at me. Or when they learn my father is Bann Trevelyan.”

“He is a leader of your people?” Cullen seemed to be taking her to a barn of some sort.

“A nobleman,” Emma corrected. “Not necessarily the same thing, but if we’re being honest even _I_ couldn’t tell you the nuances between different levels of nobility. Where are we going, anyway?”

Cullen barked out a harsh but quiet laugh; “Your way of life sounds infinitely more complicated than mine. Do you ride, my lady?”

“I do,” she answered, a bit of breathy excitement in her voice. She followed him through the door into a dark room that smelled of horses and hay. _A stable._ “I love horses.”

“Well then, you’re in luck,” he lit a lantern, casting his rugged features into a soft, golden glow. “I’d like you to meet Red Lion’s band.”

Each individual stall was created by rough-spun tapestries over twine. Horses of every shape and color, from fluffy bays to sleek chestnuts, filled said stalls. Cullen stood before a magnificent black stallion with wide, sturdy legs and a wild look in his eyes. In the adjacent stall, he clicked and cooed at a smaller horse, a mare of the most brilliant white.

“This is Vidar,” he said, stroking the stallion. “He’s been mine since he was a yearling, and this is his favorite mare, Aneira. Come, I’ll introduce you.”

Cullen took Emma’s hand in his, leading her towards the brilliantly white beast.  She was calm, gentle, and affectionate; her long, lean legs and powerful body told Emma she was _fast,_ possibly faster than any other mount in the Hold (more likely faster than any of her Grandfather’s prized steeds).

“I figured we could ride on our talk today,” Cullen took some tack from the walls—not as fine as Emma was used to, but certainly sturdy and functional. “We’ll stay well within the Holding, so don’t worry.”

Emma was so caught up, she hadn’t even thought of it. She felt a little twist in her chest— _he’d_ thought of it, of course. Whether that twist was anxiety or… _something else_ she wasn’t sure. She was sure that she took too long on her tack because she couldn’t take her eyes off his hands. Strong and broad with thick fingers, but surprisingly deft… she imagined those hands _elsewhere,_ tying things other than a saddle or bridle, and she got a little distracted.

They managed to get on the road with little fuss, following a well-worn riding trail that seemed to circle the Hold. Emma kept staring at Cullen out of the corner of her eye, and every time they made eye contact he shot her a knowing smirk.

_He’s a bit too smooth for his own good._

“So, I was wondering--.”

“Nope,” Emma interrupted. “I get my questions first.”

“If you insist,” he replied, his voice light with amusement. “But first, may I ask one? As a gesture of faith, if nothing else.”

Emma bit her lip, considering. If he asked her who Gerhardt was or what happened or why the Templars suspected her, she could deflect, but doing so could confirm whatever terrible suspicions he already had. She supposed it couldn’t hurt to try her best, so she nodded, albeit tentatively.

“What were a group of mage hunters doing this far south? Your kind rarely ventures into the wilds.”

_Ah. That I can answer._

“We were hunting a group of dangerous apostates,” Emma said simply, choosing her words carefully. “They attacked our Circle, and we took it upon ourselves to hunt them. Unfortunately, they are better at dodging us than we thought.”

“You mentioned someone named ‘Gerhardt’?”

The accent of the name sounded odd and thick on Cullen’s tongue; “I apologize, Thane, but you were only promised one question. Now we move onto mine, if you’ll allow.”

“Of course. Anything for you.”

“So explain to me how I’m your bride now?” she guided her mount over a fallen log, pushing her hair away from her face. She’d been curious about this since his announcement and how everyone just took it as gospel. “I mean, if you’re their leader, wouldn’t they want you to marry within your people?”

Cullen let out a loud bark of a laugh; “I’m sorry, the way you lowlanders view marriage is baffling to me. It isn’t about alliances are bloodlines. Part of it is for strength of blood—we never marry within our own clan—but we do understand the concept of love.”

Emma quirked her brow; he’d somehow said much but also very little. “I don’t understand. You never marry within your clan? Why?”

He balked, his eyebrows shooting into his curly fringe; “There’s a solid chance I’m at least partially related to everyone in the Hold, with the exception of Alistair and his wife of course. Marrying outside the clan keeps the blood from thinning—and the farther away a bride is from, the more prized she is.”

“So, foreign brides?”

“Are treasured among my people,” Cullen finished. “Emma, if you’re asking why I chose you, it’s because I am under tremendous pressure to wed and produce heirs. I was able to save an innocent at the same time; some of the men here are just… ambitious.”

Emma deflated slightly with a small ‘oh’. She didn’t know what she’d expected; it made perfect sense, if she was being honest. It still stung. Maybe a small part of her had thought she was special in some way, not just in the right place at the right time. It was silly…

But still, she couldn’t forget his kiss—the softness of his lips juxtaposed with the soft scratchiness of his stubble, the way he grabbed her hair and ran his teeth along her neck, the quiet _reverence_ with which he gazed at her… She’d maybe hoped he felt the heat she did, the undeniable chemistry. He’d hoped his loins would ache for her as much as hers did for him…

But it seemed it would not be the case. So she guided Aneira around a sharp dip in the path and continued.

~~~

He was _lying._

In truth, the logical conclusion he’d given had only come after too much liquor at Alistair and Lynn’s house while he talked about how blue her eyes were. In truth, he’d seen this golden lowlander with eyes like the sky and thought that he’d never seen anyone like her. He admired every curve of her body; her milk-and-honey skin; especially her smile, which was open and bright and beautiful. He feared she may not remember their kiss, as she seemed so companionable with him. It was like she could not feel the tension that radiated off him when he was near her; she couldn’t see the tenuous control he kept on his desire  for her—to possess and dominate her, take her for his own.

It frightened him to his core, how quickly this woman burrowed deep beneath the careful armor he’d erected. Her smile made him ache for her; her touch made his heart race in his chest; the sound of her—the _smell_ of her—made him want to press her into the nearest steady surface and lay claim to her. He wanted to lay her out for the soft kiss of grass and damp earth while he lost himself in the heat of her body.

How did this happen?

It didn’t take long for them to start turning back towards the Hold. The sun was above the trees and his people were out and about their daily business. They dismounted at the stable, handing their horses off to the groom. The tell-tale sounds of swords clashing told him his warriors were already training in full swing.

“Would you like to observe the warriors?” he asked, extending his hand.

“It would be my pleasure,” she answered with a smile, lacing her fingers with his.

Her fear from the day before was still present, albeit more reserved. Her curiosity appeared to be getting the better of her as she took in her surroundings. She wore a wide grin when they came to the simple paddock where the fighters did much of their exercise. Cullen rolled his eyes when he saw who was sparring—Alistair was on the offensive, while a lithe woman danced just out of his reach. Her long brown hair was caught in an elaborate braid woven around her head, giving Alistair nothing to grab aside from her limbs, and if he knew this combatant Alistair would _never_ catch her.

“Wow, she’s amazing!” Emma gasped. “Who is that?”

“That’s Lynn,” Cullen answered. “Alistair’s wife.”

“She’s incredible!”

“She is one of my finest warriors,” Cullen admitted. “Come, you should observe.”

“Dawnbringer,” he heard someone call.

He whirled on the group gathered outside the paddock; one of his soldiers was approaching with purposeful steps. Velanna was a fine mage with great talent and a tactical mind. Unfortunately, she was also a brute with a mean streak a mile wide and a trigger as fine as a wild dog’s. She had her eyes set firmly on Emma at his side.

“So this is the young woman who’s captured Dawnbringer’s heart?” she cooed, almost sweetly.

“Back off, Velanna,” Cullen growled, a warning in his voice. “I will not deal with your insolence today, especially not with my intended.”

“Lowlander!” Velanna turned her attentions on Emma. Her sharp holler drew the attention of the remainder of the fighters, bringing Lynn and Alistair’s fight to a standstill.  “You intend to be the Lady of Red Lion.”

It wasn’t a question. Cullen flickered his eyes to Emma, who appeared to be scowling. He tried to suppress his smug grin when she stood tall and stared Velanna right in the eyes. Her reaction to this would be crucial in how the entire clan saw her.

“I have been chosen by the Thane,” she snarled, setting off a surge of pride through Cullen.

“Then you should prove yourself,” Velanna suggested casually, swirling her staff. “Prove yourself worthy of the mantle and face off against a Red Lion warrior. Here and now.”

“Velanna,” Cullen warned. He had no idea what this was about. Velanna had never appeared to be possessive or territorial before.

“No, it’s fine,” she held out her hand, tying her hair back in a long tail. She turned her eyes on Velanna. “Name your terms.”

“First blood?” the other woman suggested with a relaxed shrug.

Emma nodded and pulled the strange hilt from her belt. He’d never seen anything like it before, but he was suddenly curious. The Thane’s spouse was more than just a means to produce children, and they did more than settle petty squabbles. They were protectors—responsible for the Thane and the clan’s wellbeing when the Thane was otherwise indisposed. H was suddenly excited to see what she could do.

Emma squared off against Velanna in the ring—Velanna with her staff and Emma with her sword hilt. Velanna gave a languid grin, dropping into an defensives stance.

“Fight me, Lowander,” she taunted. “If you can.”


	6. I Know Many Types of Dances

Cullen observed the two women circle each other; Velanna clutched her staff, her stance deceptively neutral. Emma kept a loose grip on the sword hilt in her hands, her thumb playing over an ornate carving on the handle. He recognized this—they were sizing each other up, gauging their tactics and, most importantly, which one would make the first move.

If he hadn’t been a trained warrior, he never would have noticed the imperceptible shift in Emma’s stance; it was all the warning Velanna got before she shot forward so fast she was a blur. Frost coated the ground on her path and magical energy burst from Emma in cold waves. In the next movement, Emma swung her hilt. Cullen felt the energy more than he saw anything, his eyebrows lifting when he saw the faint shape of a blade. Velanna stumbled back as if she had been hit, her teeth clenched in a vicious snarl.

Flames licked at Velanna’s fingertips while Emma danced back, shoring what looked like some sort of magical barrier around her. Velanna’s fireball curled around Emma’s limbs harmlessly, but a sweat broke out over her brow while Velanna pushed her advantage. Emma swung her hilt once again and, as it turned out, Cullen hadn’t imagined it. A spectral blade as long as his great sword (possibly longer) shot out, crashing against Velanna’s barrier. The other woman shoulder-rolled out of Emma’s path, brushing the ground with her fingers. Emma was only just able to get out of the way before Velanna’s fire mine activated.

They’d attracted an audience including, Cullen noticed with some interest, the augur. Cullen tried to watch the fight with cool indifference; he was Thane, and his people looked to him for guidance. He couldn’t be showing favoritism beyond what he’d given—not yet. But he couldn’t help noting Emma’s style. Her form was impeccable, and there was a short, hardly noticeable pause between her lunges and swings. Where Velanna was barely held rage and power behind vicious strikes, Emma was tight control and practice.  If Velanna looked long enough to see Emma’s delay, she could have had her by now.

As it was, it was over as quickly as it began. Emma danced to the edge of the ring before using that magical dash, bowling straight into Velanna, tossing her to the ground. Emma hooked her foot under Velanna’s discarded staff, tossing it into her hands and pointing it at the other woman’s face, her boot planted on her chest.

“It seems you are victorious, Lowlander,” Velanna exclaimed, an excited gleam in her eye.

“Indeed,” Emma replied coolly, a slow mischievous smile pulling her full lips up. She transferred the staff to her other hand, pulling Velanna to a standing position. “That was quite the fight…”

“Velanna,” she said, accepting her proffered staff. “Velanna an Sidona Red Lion.”

“Emma Trevelyan,” Emma replied, smiling warmly. “Good fight. We should do it again.”

“Don’t tempt me, my Lady,” Velanna quirked her brow at Emma, shooting a knowing look to her Thane, and rejoining the warriors.

Emma stepped out of the ring, wincing and grasping at her side; Cullen was on her quickly; “Emma, are you hurt? Are you burned? Do you need a healer?”

“Stop fussing, _Thane,_ ” she quipped, smirking at him through her long lashes. It was… an alluring effect. “She didn’t even get through my barrier. No, it seems I aggravated my ribs in that fight.”

“Well, then,” Cullen pressed his lips against her forehead, trying to ignore the slightly-singed smell of her hair. “I’ll try not to excite you too much.”

He didn’t want to say it—he didn’t even want to _think_ it—but he had been frightened for her. Velanna could be vicious when she wanted to, and for a brief, terrifying second he had actually feared her falling. He should have had more faith—he’d seen the aftermath of the explosion she’d survived—but that horrible, irrational part of him had too much fear for faith. He was still that small boy who could remember his mother’s screaming, his father’s desperate sobs as Mara died horribly… he drew Emma into his arms, trying to block out the memories, thankful to everything that was good in the world when her surprisingly strong arms wrapped around him.

The excited murmuring in the crowd was starting to quiet, and Cullen peered around the lovely woman in his arms in time to notice the augur approaching him. The old woman had been augur for longer than Cullen was alive, even back when his father was Thane, and he took every word of her council to heart. She had that look about her; he’d come to recognize that look.

“She is worthy,” she declared quietly, her voice low and raspy with age. “She is the harbinger of prosperity for Red Lion.”

“You approve?” Emma asked incredulously, though her eyes were wide with reverence.

“I do, Summer Child,” the old woman replied. “You will lead Red Lion, and you will protect our Thane. Of that I am certain.”

A hush fell over the gathered people, and Cullen could barely contain the swell of overwhelming _joy_ that overtook him. He grinned widely— _wildly—_ and drew Emma to his side; “Then we shall feast! By week’s end, we shall celebrate!”

A cheer rang out over the Hold, but Cullen only had eyes for his beautiful lowlander. She grinned up at him, and he felt something shift within him.

He had to have her. He _needed_ her; she was growing to be an addiction… and he liked it.

~~~

“It’s because of the augur’s prediction,” Rosalie whispered conspiratorially, ignoring Mia’s pointed looks.

“I defeated one of your warriors,” Emma countered, dragging the back of her hand across her cheek before returning to her kneading. “How can _that_ be a sign of prosperity?”

“The augur deals with spirits,” Mia replied simply as if it answered the question, turning the fabric she was working on over in her hands. “Emma, add more flour to that; it’s getting too sticky.”

“So the spirits tell her what will happen?” Emma asked, working a handful of flour into her dough, rubbing at her forehead with her knuckle.

“Sort of,” Mia scrunched her nose in thought for a moment. “I’m not really sure; you’d have to ask the augur to be sure. The long and short of it is the augur’s word is the last on matters such as this, and she blesses your presence. Thus, a feast.”

“I’m excited!” Rosalie exclaimed, working her dough in an elaborate braid pattern before dabbing it with egg and honey. “We haven’t had something like this in… quite some time. Not since--.”

“Rosalie!” Mia snapped. Emma looked back and forth between the now silent women. Something was being left unsaid, but they seemed content to just go back to their work despite Emma’s aching curiosity. “Now, Emma, come here and keep your hands away from the fabric. Turn from me—I have to check the shoulders.”

Emma wasn’t used to the casual way the sisters interacted with her. Rosalie had just sort of… accepted her: calling her ‘sister’; playing with her hair; casual touches… Mia was distant, but maternal in a way. Cullen had spent much of the week away: rising long before she was up and not coming to bed until after she was asleep. According to Mia, there were preparations to be made and hunts to be conducted. Despite the newness of their relationship, Emma desperately missed the casual way he would touch her when he was near.

It was strange but… she missed him.

Sudden voices just outside the door caught everyone’s attention, Rosalie’s in particular. Emma recognized Cullen’s voice, but the second… a second Cullen?

“Branson!” Rosalie exclaimed, tossing open the door and throwing herself into the arms of a young man.

He looked a lot like Cullen, who stood next to him with his foot propped on some sort of cask, this man was all lean muscle where Cullen was strong and built. His slightly-darker curls were gathered into some sort of knot on his head and his eyes were a strange green-grey, as opposed to Cullen’s warm amber. So this was the brother.

“Cullen!” Branson exclaimed, sweeping Emma into his arms with little warning. “So this is the _beautiful lowlander_ you can’t shut up about?”

Emma flushed, pressed as she was against Branson’s chest.

“Bran, put her down,” Cullen ordered, his face broken into a sardonic grin. “Emma, I’m sorry, but it is with great displeasure I introduce my younger brother, Branson.”

“Meeting me is the greatest pleasure she will ever know,” Branson retorted with a smug smile. “I am the most handsome of Mara’s sons.”

Emma rolled her eyes; “I see you’re also the snarkiest of Mara’s sons.”

“Ah, keep this one close, Cullen, or I may have to steal her,” Branson opined dramatically, clutching Emma to his chest. With an indignant huff, Mia shoved on Branson’s shoulder until he freed her.

Cullen put an affectionate hand on Emma’s shoulder; a trill of desire ran down her limbs when she felt his harsh calluses rasp over the sensitive skin. She heard him chuckle: low, dark and throaty; “Lass, you have flour on your face.”

“What?” Emma wiped at her cheek, balking when he just laughed harder. Her hands were covered—it had been so long since she last baked. “Maker, I must look the sight.”

“Come with me, I’ll get you clean,” Cullen couldn’t contain his little grin at her sudden flush when he pulled her into the house, ignoring the crude wolf whistles Bran was howling.

“Your brother is delightful,” Emma said, wiping at her face with a damp cloth. “So the celebration is this evening?”

“Yes, and I was hoping you would do something for me.”

She felt his hands in her hair, scratching his nails along her scalp, loosening the tight knot she kept the long, blonde locks in.

“Wear your hair unbound for me,” he purred, pressing against her. She could feel his heat through her dress, and she drew in a sharp hiss.

~~~

She felt warm all over, despite the fact that her skirt was little more than flimsy green satin tied at the hip. But the lit braziers casting the Thane’s Hall in a soft, warm glow and the too-many cups of cider combined well with the heady smell of the floral garlands that bedecked the room. The press of people was almost overwhelming, but Rosalie and Mia brought her through it. Rosalie had showed her how to dance, the series of stomps and claps and turns to the pounding music coming almost as easily as the willowy wavering she was engaged in now. She distantly heard the hoots of the men around her as she swayed, but the only eyes on her that mattered were Cullen’s.

He was thoroughly entrenched in the role of Thane Dawnbringer, slouched with confident authority on his throne. He wore dark furs over his hips and shoulders, but his torso was bare; his muscles rippled under his skin, burnished gold in the light. And despite being in shadow, she could see his amber eyes glittering at her, full of heat and primal, masculine _want._ She’d never known another man like him, and she didn’t know if it was the cider or her out-of-control libido but she wanted to know him more. She allowed her eyes to linger on his as she strutted towards him, allowing her sumptuous hips to roll with every step.

When she stood before him, he wasted no time in pulling her to his lap. She let out a shriek of laughter when his fingers ghosted over her hip.

“You smell good,” she hummed, pressing into his neck. She felt herself shudder when she heard his breath hitch, his grip tightening on her.

“I thought you were a warrior, lass,” he murmured, pushing her hair back from her shoulder. He seemed to really like her hair. “Not a dancer.”

“I know many types of dances,” she slurred, rolling her hips unsubtly forward. She wanted him to put his hands on her _now_ damn it and he wasn’t obliging. “Combat is only one.”

“Well said,” his voice rumbled deep in his chest, thick with desire. She felt flames lick up from her core, tightening in her stomach and thighs. She shifted against him, aching for friction. “Emma, if you keep that up, I may not be able to take my hands off you.”

She whined, pressing in tighter, as she imagined him taking her _now._ As she imagined him _ripping_ her blouse open, exposing her unbound breasts, tonguing the dusty pink peaks; pushing aside the furs across the obviously hard length of his shaft and shoving into her, splitting her on him, letting her bounce on his lap while he swirled his sword-rough fingers over the place of their joining until she shattered in his arms in front of Red Lion and the Maker and everyone.

“Then put your hands on me,” she gasped at her own filthy thoughts, thanking the Maker he didn’t seem to be able to read her mind.

“Temptress,” he accused, though he still pushed one of his big hands through the slit in her skirt, palming over her thigh in deliberate strokes. His knuckles brushed against the curls at the apex of her thighs; her whole body clenched on her empty sheath, begging for him, aching for his touch. With a quick turn of his wrist, he was running his fore and middle fingers along her slit, just barely dipping in to feel the pooling wetness there. He choked on a ragged gasp, his eyes falling closed in reverence. “You’re so wet for me already; I wonder how you’ll be if I crest you right here.”

There was an idle threat in his voice, but her damnable traitor body tore a low moan from her chest while her hips whipped against his hand, seeking contact. He rewarded her with a dark chuckle and pressed soft kisses against her jaw and the shell of her ear. She was panting like a well-paid whore as he gently parted her lips, caressing in feather-light strokes until he found her opening. He slid a finger inside of her; she felt a swell of feminine pride when his iron control wavered and his eyes slid closed. He buried his hands into her hair, pulling her face down to his.

Anyone who saw the subtle movements of his wrist or the ecstatic expression on her face would know what he was doing. She keened wantonly, her tiny sounds drowned by the raucous merriment surrounding their little oasis of pleasure, while he peppered her throat with biting kisses. He was _absolutely_ leaving marks, but part of her just _yearned_ to be claimed—leave no doubt that she was his woman. It was all over when he curled his fingers upward, flicking his thumb over her neglected pearl. The dual sensations tore through her, narrowing the whole world to a single point, and for a minute she felt like she was dying because _nothing_ felt this good. The build was slow and intense, simultaneously too much and not enough, until her mouth fell open in a silent cry and she _shattered_ in his arms. She buried her face in the furs at his shoulder, gripping his curls _just_ this side of too hard, whimpering nothing as he drew her through her peak and down the other side of the crest. Her cunt clenched _hard_ on his fingers, rippling along his touch, as he guided her through the aftershocks with tender kisses and gentle encouragement.

He finally removed his fingers with a hiss, bringing them shining with her fluids to his mouth. She watched, enraptured, as he sucked them through his lips, his eyes closing with a pleasured moan at the taste of her. She felt a flush work its way up her heated back as his eyes—blackened, lust-blown pits in his arousal—fixed on hers. Something passed between them as he moved the hand that had _just_ been inside her to cup the curve of her hip. His grasp was somehow tender and bruising, possessive and reverent. She ran her fingers through his curls, trailing down along, skinny plait, before resting over his bare chest. He leaned into the touch, almost as desperate for contact as she was. He pushed her skirt to the side, as if he meant to take her on his throne. She almost let him.

But then, the roar of an explosion drew the merriment to a dead stop.


	7. I Want To Protect You

He almost groaned aloud when the spell was broken. She’d been so beautiful—soft and yielding above him, making the most delicious sounds. She tasted as good as she sounded, and the feel of her was almost too much. Knowing the clenching, tight wet _heat_ just beyond the barrier of easily-disposed silk was a temptation unlike any other. For a moment, he’d seen the look in her eyes; she had almost let him take her right here, in the Thane’s Hall, surrounded by his clan. And he almost did.

But then, explosion.

The hall sobered quickly, the people a flurry of activity. Warriors sprung from their spaces, drawing weapons, while everyone else gathered their friends and families into safe areas. Emma was off him in a fluid motion that belied her still-healing body, pulling that hilt from the waist of her skirt. Cullen took his sword in hand, and as one the warriors made their way outside.

“Thank the Maker,” Emma muttered when they emerged into the empty street.

“I don’t believe in your Maker,” he heard Alistair mutter. “But for once I agree.”

“It seems everyone was in the Thane’s Hall,” Krem declared, approaching the ring of blackened soil. “Thank the Lady.”

“Be careful,” Emma warned. “Nothing creates a ring like that except… Antivan Fire.”

“What is Antivan Fire?” Alistair asked, followed by a low hum of curiosity from the gathered warriors.

“Antivan Fire is a rare but deadly explosive; it requires magic to work,” Alistair’s wife, Lynn, interjected. The woman approached Emma, kneeling next to her to inspect the band of ruin. “But who would do such a thing? Who _could_ do such a thing?”

“The mage hunters?” Karras asked, gripping his sword and turning an accusatory glare onto Emma.

“The Templars don’t possess this sort of power,” Emma explained, her whole demeanor shifting. Her voice was cold, distant and unaffected. “No, I know the type who would use something like this.”

“Emma?” Cullen came up next to her, balking at the shuttered look in her eyes.

“The apostates my team was hunting. They did this,” she said without inflection or emotion. “Antivan Fire was one of their specialties.”

“But why would they attack?” Krem asked.

“I think it’s personal,” Emma muttered. “I’m the only one they missed, and I’ve drawn more Templars to these woods.”

“So you draw more danger to our clan, lowlander,” Karras snapped, jutting his finger in Emma’s face. If Cullen didn’t know better, he would have thought Emma would bite it off. Judging by the apoplectic look on her face, she was damned close to doing so.

Cullen intervened before anyone could escalate; “That’s enough! Those of you on morning duty find your families and return to your homes. Night watch can set a perimeter and check the holdings.”

“Don’t tell me, you’re taking your precious lowlander _home_ ,” Karras spat.

“I will,” Cullen answered through his teeth. Karras was acting like a brat; for what reason he didn’t know. “And then I join the watch. Karras, I suggest returning to your family; your wife is probably upset.”

The warriors scattered, Alistair sending Lynn home with the promise to return as soon as he could, while Cullen led Emma back home, a tentative hand on her waist. In truth, he wasn’t thrilled with the tremor in her hands or the way she pinched the bridge of her nose with every breath. Not to mention the fact he wanted answers. Real answers. _Now._

As soon as they were through the front door, Cullen drew Emma into a fierce embrace, trying desperately to ignore the trembling in her limbs.  

“Emma, talk to me,” he rasped, fisting a handful of her corn silk hair. Every possible horrible scenario ran through his mind at once—if she’d stepped out for air, if she’d been alone… by the Mountain Father, he was a breath away from losing her this night.

She sighed deeply, leaning into his embrace. She was limp, and the slope of her shoulders conveyed weariness over all else; “It’s always been personal, Cullen. I _volunteered_ to find them. Karras is right—I bring you nothing but trouble.”

He pulled her back, cupping her jaw in his hands; “You are not trouble to me.”

“We were fortunate,” she countered, her voice hard but her eyes soft and vulnerable. “I could have gotten someone killed.”

“But you _didn’t,_ ” he retorted, resting his forehead against hers. “Why, Emma? Why have they come for you?”

“I already killed one of them,” she replied frankly, letting her eyes slide closed. “I suppose they took it personally.”

“What are they to you?”

“They attacked the Circle,” she answered fiercely. “They are horrible men who set off explosives in the Templars’ vault to escape. Four Knights and six mages were killed including… the Knight Commander.”

“You mentioned a man named ‘Gerhardt’,” he pressed. He hadn’t bothered to look, but a fierce woman who’d seemed so unbreakable a mere four days before now seemed so…fragile. He saw the spider web of cracks in her veneer of hardness, and he longed to peel it away. “Who was he?”

She drew in a broken sigh, and something in her shattered; “He was Knight Commander of the Ostwick Circle, and he was my big brother.”

~~~

She felt nausea and grief and damning _guilt_ twist in her gut when she mentioned his name. Gerhardt, her indomitable, indestructible anchor… a scant seven years older than her, a giant Free Marcher man, handsome and unshakably kind. He was the one who’d been there for her, protected her, her whole life. He’d enlisted with the Templars the _moment_ she got taken to the Circle. His presence had made those early, homesick days before she could properly read the letters her mother would send _bearable._ And she’d held his shaking, burnt, broken, unrecognizable body in her arms while he breathed his last.

“I heard the explosion,” she gasped around the awful lump in her throat. “It could be felt all through the tower. I ran to him… to Gerhardt. And he was dying. There was nothing I could do for him—I lost control. I killed one on the spot; the rest got away.”

She felt filthy. She felt unworthy of the gentle way he held her when the floodgates opened and she _cried._ She felt the weight of the men who’d died protecting her, or serving with her. And now she’d put the Hold in danger; _Cullen_ had been in danger. She hadn’t been vigilant. She hadn’t been _ready._ She thought of the deaths that could have been prevented—of the ones she failed to prevent, and suddenly gravity was too much for her.

 She collapsed to her knees, feeling the unspeakable agony tear through her yet again. She let out a broken sob, but all it sounded like was Gerhardt struggling to breathe through burnt lungs, and she felt sick again. Strong hands gathered her hair over one shoulder; a forehead pressed against the back of her neck. His breath ghosted over the bare skin above her bustier; he didn’t whisper about how it was going to be OK or how it wasn’t her fault and there wasn’t anything she could do. For that, she was grateful.

“I’m sorry,” she sighed, curling in on herself. “I didn’t mean—.”

“No,” he said firmly. He tightened his arms around her. He burrowed deeper into her, holding her tighter. His warmth was comforting, and his arms were protective.

Eventually, the day caught up with her, and she felt the pull of exhaustion. She groaned when Cullen’s arms slipped around her, hefting her into his chest. She allowed it, wrapping his embrace around her like a comfort item. She nestled into the nook created by his arms, breathing him in, and being so thankful for him.

~~~

After a week of searching, inside and out of the hold, they’d come up with nothing. Granted, the teams were hobbled—Emma couldn’t leave the hold without risking the Templar’s wrath, and without her expertise, Bran and his team were running blind. Even worse, it appeared Emma was growing more withdrawn, even to the point he could barely lay a hand on her without her whole body tensing under his touch. He tried to ignore the keen sting when she pulled away. She was grieving and scared, and he wanted to give her that space.

Late spring was setting in cold and rainy; winter’s last hurrah drove most everyone indoors. While preparing for summer and the typical frenzy of merriment that filled the season, it occurred to Cullen he hardly knew his intended. This was not uncommon amongst his people—he was sure most of the more _traditional_ of his clan would balk at how attached he was becoming to this woman whom he’d saved. Rescued, like some romantic hero, not kidnapped. He didn’t steal her; he harbored her. While she was in the Hold against her will, it was a technicality at best.

He often wondered at how long their marriage would be—one year? Two? More?—and he froze with anxiety. He thought of other men putting their hands on her, and a fierce protective instinct would claw at him like a wild animal. It was disgusting, really, but he was infatuated. He would marvel at the soft curve of her body, the heavy fall of her pale hair, the expressiveness of those _eyes._ She too hard for traditional, lowlander beauty but too soft for ruggedness.  She looked almost…regal. He found himself wanting to submit to her, which made him want _her_ to submit. It was a strange dissonance he savored.

The house was quiet, save for the pounding rain outside. It was unusual when his household was idle, but it was one of those rare occasions when there was little to do, and even less motivation to do it. Cullen couldn’t stand the quiet solitude of the kitchen for much longer. Odd, how mere weeks ago, it would have been a blessing. He made his way into his room, idly running his hands over his bare arms. It wouldn’t hurt to indulge in his secret pastime…

He wasn’t anticipating the effect _she_ would have, bundled in his favorite fur mantle, the glow of the fire playing over her high-boned features. Emma was writing in what appeared to be a journal of some kind, the simple dark green dress a surprising fit on her. She must have heard his approach; her pen stilled and her eyes flickered up to meet his. A smile stretched her lips, but it didn’t meet her eyes.

“Cullen,” she said softly, reaching out her hand for him. He took it and settled onto the rug next to her. It had been a while since she’d actively sought his company, or his touch.

“What are you doing?” he asked, leaning into her. Her smell had subtly shifted in her weeks at the hold. She still perfumed her hair with honeysuckle and some sort of perfume, but now there was something almost Avvar in her scent. Something _wild,_ and the contrast was intoxicating.

“I’m writing to my mother,” she replied. “She’ll never read it, but it’s comforting.”

“Why won’t she read it? Are you… do you not get along?” She’d never even come close to offering a glimpse into her life before she met him, other than the barest details, so he would take what she would offer, and happily.

“No, we get along fine,” she answered, smoothing an imaginary wrinkle in her skirt. “But she can’t read it if I can’t send it.”

“I could have it sent,” Cullen said hastily. It was worth it for the glimmer of optimism in Emma’s eyes. “I’m sending Lynn outside the Hold soon for supplies. I can have it sent with her.”

She smiled, big and bright, and Cullen returned that smile. _There’s my girl._

“Thank you,” she laid her hand over his, squeezing his fingers affectionately.

“As soon as the rains pass and the roads are safe,” Cullen assured, leaning his forehead against hers. He brushed his thumb over her jaw, and for the first time in a while she leaned into the touch.

“So, if we’re going to be idle, we may as well do it together, no?” Emma set her journal to the side, careful not to smudge the still-glistening ink on the pages. “I’ve spent my time here learning _your_ ways. Care to learn some of mine?”

“Happily,” he replied, quirking his brow. He couldn’t help but admire the way her dress clung to her every soft, rounded curve. Her feet and ankles were both bare and visible, hinting at the pale silky skin he _knew_ lie beneath.

She flushed at the heat in his gaze, but reached under the bed for… was that her satchel? The few possessions she’d come to him with, and still she kept them separate. He idly wondered why, though she was unlikely to answer. She pulled out a small box and returned to him, sitting opposite and setting the box between them.

“Chess,” she answered his unasked question, pulling small stone-carved pieces out of the box, setting them on a small board in a painted pattern. “It’s not a hard game, and I’m not as proficient as I would like to be, but I’d love to play with you. That is, if you want to.”

“I’d love to learn,” he answered, watching intently while she set up the various pieces. He’d never had much time for idle pleasantries such as games; but Emma wanted to teach him.

They spent some time teaching him the various pieces, the rules, how the pieces moved and the win conditions. She then helped him fumble through a few matches where she soundly crushed him into the ground. But he was a quick learner, and soon they had an actual match going where every third word didn’t have to be a correction or ‘helpful’ suggestion.

“You’re getting quite good at this,” Emma said, frowning at the board.

Cullen moved a piece into place; “I had a good teacher.”

“You flatter me,” Emma replied dryly, running an idle finger over one of her pieces. “I’m unfortunately out of practice.”

“Who taught you to play?” he asked.

A sharp gasp told him _exactly_ who’d taught her, but he said nothing.

“Gerhardt,” she finally answered, moving her pawn into place.

“Tell me about him,” Cullen pressed. “About your family. You’ve never spoken of them.”

“I come from a large family,” she answered. Gerhardt was the eldest, followed by my sister Helena, then me and my twin brother Erik. Though if you ask Erik, I am the youngest. Gerhardt enlisted with the Templars as soon as I was taken to the Circle. He worked hard, but he became one of the younger Knight Commanders Ostwick has ever seen.”

“Knight Commander?”

“They sort of run the Templars at the Circle,” she explained. “But that was Gerhardt. Hard work and perseverance. My father used to joke that his real father must be Fereldan, given how stubborn he is. Was.”

There was a slight catch in her voice; her face crumpled as tears threatened at the corner of her eyes. He scooted across the floor, wrapping an arm around her shoulder, pulling her close. She didn’t recoil, for which he was thankful.

“I miss him,” she said around a sharp cry.

“I know,” he pressed a kiss to her hair, holding her close.

“I should have _been_ there,” she growled, fierce despite the broken sob in her voice. “I should have protected him. I _failed._ I failed him; he’s always _been there_ , and I failed. I held him; Maker forgive me, but when I found him I should have _ended_ his suffering. He was beyond repair, but I couldn’t! I held him in my arms; he was bleeding and broken and burned and must have been in _such pain_ , and I let him suffer so I could say goodbye. I didn’t take his last breath, but _damn it_ Cullen I killed my brother!

“This is why it hurts so much… that Hadley thinks I would... Gerhardt protected me, all my life, he was there for me. And it was my mistake that killed him. He was my brother, in arms and in blood.”

She turned towards Cullen, carding her hands through his curls, skimming her thumb across his cheek. He leaned into the touch, allowing his lips to brush against her palm, reveling in the little gasp she allowed at the contact.

“I couldn’t protect the one man who always protected me,” she said, her voice soft, though her eyes were fierce. He felt them bore into him, trying desperately to convey what she wouldn’t (or couldn’t) say. “But I want to protect you, Cullen. And I _always_ will. Don’t forget that.”


	8. Please

As quickly and fiercely as the last spring rains began, they gave way to the heat of early summer. Life within the hold had largely returned to normal, but something had shifted between Cullen and Emma. It was unquantifiable and almost imperceptible, but he could feel it. She was more casual with her touches; her smiles were more unguarded. She let him see more of herself, who she was outside of a warrior. And despite her magic she _was_ a warrior.

She’d made good friends with Alistair’s wife, Lynn, and they spent more time together than anyone else in the hold. It would have frightened him if it hadn’t made her so happy. He found himself looking for things that made his Emma happy, from a soft kiss on the shoulder in the morning to a flower left on her night table. He looked for excuses to touch her; he loved the feel of her skin under his hands, and yet she still seemed hesitant to go forward, and every day when he saw the rounded curves begging for his touch under her clothes, and he ached for her.

On a particularly sunny and warm morning, he came across Emma and Lynn by the river washing clothes. He saw her hair first, and then heard her laugh. She was in a good mood and, even better, distracted. He took his opportunity and silently crept across the grass, staying behind her. He saw Lynn’s eyes flicker to him once but, thankfully, she said nothing. He used the opening to wrap his strong arms around her waist, lifting her bodily against him. Her simple linen dress bunched under him, exposing her long, lean legs.

“Cullen!” she squealed, kicking back at him, though he deftly dodged her flailing. “Cullen, what are you doing?!”

“Well, I saw how lovely you looked,” he chuckled, nuzzling against her neck. He felt her breasts shift over his arm with her little gasp and had to _firmly_ remind himself that Lynn was _right there._ “And I had to have you right now.”

“Cullen, put me down!” she shrieked indignantly, though a touch of mirth took the bite out of her command.

“Right now?” he asked.

“Right now!” she demanded.

“If you insist,” Cullen said flippantly.

She only seemed to notice her mistake once it was too late, as he let his arms drop, depositing her unceremoniously into the river. Her yelp only lasted a split second before she disappeared under water with a splash. The water was only waist deep, but still cold despite the warmth of the air, and for a moment he was afraid he might have to go in after her with his deepest apologies. But a mere breath later, she popped up from the surface, gasping less for breath and more at the sheer shock. She looked a bit like a drowned rat, with her curtain of sodden hair in her face.

“Cullen,” she growled, though there was a playful smirk on her face as she pushed her hair back. “I am going to count to 30, and then you’re going to _get it._ ”

“I would run,” Lynn taunted in a sing song voice, continuing her wash as if the whole encounter wasn’t happening.

Cullen waggled his eyebrows at Emma before taking off at a run. He almost believed he was moving to fast, that the game would be over already, but before he could even think of slowing down he felt the wintery breeze hit the bare skin of his back before a tiny body collided with him. He let out a breathless laugh, hitting the ground at a roll. Somehow, with some skillful maneuvering, he ended up under her, chuckling warmly. She huffed a bit in amusement before all laughter died in a blaze of sudden heat.

He drew in a sharp gasp, running his hands over her bare thighs. The simple white dress she wore had gone transparent, her rosy nipples hard and dark through the fabric. Her hair fell around her shoulders, dripping cool water on his chest. He couldn’t find it in him to care as he fisted that hair in his hands, pulling her back into a sinuous bow. His other hand, free to wander, set about exploring the planes of her body. He skimmed over her stomach, brushed against her ribs; his eyes were locked on her heaving chest, her breasts threatened to spring free with every gasp. Her hips start a slow, soft rhythm, rubbing against the sensitive skin above the waist of his breeches. The apex of her thighs is warm and wet and _bare_ , and he can imagine the sweet nectar glistening on the beautiful lips he’s longed to see.

Groaning, resisting the urge to thrust against her, he kneaded one of her breasts in his hands, feeling the soft give—the _weight—_ in his palm. She moaned softly, curving towards him. She gifts him with a low cry when his hand in her hair pulls it taught. Her delectable, lush mouth has fallen open, her tongue darting out to wet those perfect, pink lips. With a turn of his wrist, he loosens his grip on her hair, cupping her jaw and hooking his thumb into her mouth. She lets her eyes and lips slide closed, feeling her tongue flick against the hardened, callused tip. Her wanton suckling fans a primal flame in his gut; he feels a tug somewhere behind his belly button and with a rough twist of their bodies, he’s levered over her, biting against the juncture of her neck and shoulder.

She arched into his touch, her hips undulating against him, her little sighs and gasps turning into mewls of pleasure when he presses his lips between her breasts. His stubble rasped over the soft skin, drawing another little sigh from her, while he levered her legs around his hips. The linen dress is an alluring effect but he wants to touch her. He wants her skin on his. He wants her sweet taste on his tongue and her hands in his hair. He wanted _her—_ to own her and possess her and press her against him and never let go. He slid his hands under the skirt, rucking the fabric up to her hips, looking her in the eyes the whole time. He went slow, giving her the opportunity to say no, but all she gave him was encouraging moans and dark eyes full of heat and lust and _want_.

He groaned when her curls were bare before him. Her thighs were splayed to accommodate his hips, revealing those perfect folds as pink as the lips on her face and glistening with moisture. He spread her thighs, peppering the soft skin with biting kisses, pulling little ragged gasps out of her chest. He stopped just above her quivering opening, watching her opening clench around nothing instinctively begging for him, nosing at her throbbing, bright red clit. The primal _need_ , the ache that tore through him in that moment pulled at his already-frayed self control. The subtle buck in her hips beckoned his touch, begged for him with her body if not her words. He tore his gaze from her, lifting his eyes to hers with a begging-- _pleading—_ question in them.

His voice came out in a harsh rasp, thick with desire; “May I?”

~~~

It was a heady— _powerful_ —experience, seeing this huge man who could easily take her, rut into her like an animal with or without her consent, ask permission like this. His eyes were hungry but his gaze was reverent. She felt beautiful under his grasp, the primal groans from him awakening something in her. He gazed at her hot, aching center like a starving man looks upon a feast, and his eyes darkened as he asked for her gentle permission.

She could barely form words with his breath ghosting over her clit as it was. She’d never been touched this way before, and while part of her was embarrassed the primal part of her (the part that was currently winning over reason) wanted to be devoured and savored. She swallowed hard and nodded, the harsh rasp of her whisper sounding remarkably like ‘ _Please.’_

He kept his strokes frustratingly shallow, lapping at the seam of her sex, teasing them both. He never broke eye contact, his golden eyes molten with craving and yearning. His hand joined his lips as he pried her open, teasing at the delicate folds of her cunt.

“I’ve been thinking of this for days,” he moaned, his voice vibrating against her, his lips brushing against her outer folds. “Since the night of the feast; I want to taste you, Emma. I want you to fall apart and spill on my tongue. I want to take you so far you _beg_ me to stop.”

“Cullen,” she whimpered, spreading her thighs a little wider, less feeling and more hearing his quiet hiss. “ _Please._ ”

And then, slowly— _agonizingly slowly—_ he dragged the flat of his tongue along the deepest part of her. He groaned, a hungry sound, as he swirled the tip of his tongue around her clit, pushing the delicate hood back and gently swiping over the engorged pearl. She jumped when she felt a hint of his teeth before he closed his lips on her and suckled like she was the sweetest confection. His eyes slid closed as he hooked her thighs over his broad shoulders. A gentle fingertip swirled around her opening, teasing and testing, before a callused finger sank into the hot clench of her body.

Her mewls of ecstasy should be humiliating; her wanton gasps blubbering his name in barely coherent sobs should be curling shame in her heart, but the only thing she can focus on is the liquid slide of his tongue against her, the rough curling of his finger inside her. Something familiar is drawing _tight_ inside; he mutters something against her, but she has to grasp his curls to hold on. Without that downy-soft tether, surely she would fall apart. He redoubled his efforts, her cries echoing over the empty field, the evidence of their passion probably carrying all the way back to the hold. But when her back arches to the point she’s sure it will snap and she shatters like a struck mirror, she can’t seem to care.

He moans against her, lapping at her opening as an unfamiliar, hot _wetness_ rushes out of her; his tongue stabbed into her clenching quim, drawing her through her orgasm and carefully bringing her down from the peak. When he levered himself up and over her face, pressing his lips against hers, he tasted like _her_.

“I love the way you taste, Emma,” he groaned. She loved the way he said her name, like he was claiming her. It was _his._ She was his.

She drew him in for another kiss, slower if not just as frantic, whipping her hips in an instinctual rhythm, before they were so rudely interrupted by a low whistle. To the untrained ear, it was just a bird call, but to them, it was a warning. A signal.

“Riders approach the Hold,” Cullen answered her unasked question. “It’s as if the Gods themselves want to stop me from taking you, but we should head back.”

Emma nodded, accepting his hand as he pulled her up. She was still damp, and now the back of her dress was covered in dirt, but she couldn’t find it in herself to care. They made their way back to the hold at a swift jog; she took note of the tension that had rolled across the clan, though they had no idea if the approaching riders were friend or foe.

Thankfully, Emma recognized the fine horses just as they came into her range of sight, and nearly choked on a disbelieving gasp. _Could it be?_ Two fine steeds galloped at an absolutely irresponsible speed into the hold on strong legs, one a delicately dappled palomino, the other a strong chestnut forder with thick, black legs. She knew those spirited horses, and even better, she knew their riders as they drew to a stop.

~~~

“Erik! Helena!” Emma squealed with delight as the male rider drew to a stop and dismounted.

Even Cullen was a bit intimidated by him—a mountain of a man with shoulders as wide as a door and arms like tree limbs. He swept Emma into an affectionate hug, and she looked like a doll compared to him; he had a thatch of identical pale blonde hair, but his eyes were green-grey, not blue. The woman was a bit smaller, her hair a reddish hue with the same green-grey eyes as the man.

“Cullen,” Emma exclaimed, her voice bright and excited. “This is my twin brother, Erik, and my older sister, Helena. Erik, Helena, meet Cullen.”

Helena tossed her red-gold curls over her shoulder—despite being the same height as Emma and drastically shorter than him, she somehow managed to make him feel small in her gaze; “So you’re the one from her letter.”

Cullen smiled easily. He was the _Thane,_ after all; “I hope so. Cullen ar Mara Red Lion; welcome to Red Lion Hold.”

“Not quite what I expected,” Erik interjected, and Cullen tried not to visibly gulp. It had been a long time since he’d had to _look up_ at someone. “Pleasure to meet you.”

Emma yanked on her brother’s arm, and he responded by dragging her to his side, her head looking ridiculously tiny next to his giant paw-hands, but she was smiling easily and brightly in a way he’d never seen before. She wrapped her arms around him, like she was trying to imprint her brother’s essence on her soul.

“What are you two doing here?” Emma asked, her brows drawing down. “Is it Mother? Father?”

“No, nothing like that, Emma,” Helena swept in for a hug of her own. Erik wrapped his arms around his sisters, pulling them into his chest. “We got your letter and Mother wanted us to come, make sure you were well.”

“But your estate…”

“Ricon can handle the estate for a few days while I’m away,” she admonished. “Mother wanted to come with us, but she’s still managing the fall out of Gerhardt’s death.”

Emma visibly deflated; “Ah. About that--.”

“Emma, don’t,” Erik snapped, squeezing her shoulder. “No one blames you. This isn’t your fault.”

She only nodded, burrowing deeper into Erik’s side; “I’m just glad you’re here.”

“Oh, I almost forgot!” Erik reached for his saddle bag, pulling out an over-stuffed satchel. “Mother sent some things from home.”

Cullen cast his eyes to a group of warriors—ones he didn’t have strong control over—and put a hand on Helena’s shoulder; “Perhaps we should take this inside?”


	9. I Have Made My Choice

Cullen didn’t expect to come into the kitchen to find Emma sobbing over a plain, leather-bound book, but here they were. Erik didn’t so much _sit_ in a chair so much as overwhelm it, while Helena rubbed her sister’s back in soothing circles. Cullen caught a flash of Rosalie poking her head out of the room she and Mia shared, making doe-eyes at Erik, earning a knowing eye-roll from her brother.

“Emma, what is it?” he asked, his hands floundering as he debated crossing the room to her.

“It’s Gerhardt’s journal,” Emma sniffled, wiping at the tears under her eyes. “Mother recovered his effects and sent them to me.”

There wasn’t much, it appeared, aside from the battered, mostly filled journal and the slightly-singed amulet that now hung against the hollow of her throat. Aside from that, there appeared to be a neatly-folded stack of clothes, a few books, a small lacquered box, a finely-made satchel, and a leather pouch that jingled with the obvious sound of coin.

“What does mother think I am going to do with all this?” Emma asked incredulously.

“They’re your things,” Helena retorted. “Most of your possessions were confiscated by the White Spire when you were declared Apostate, but Mother gave the Knight Vigilant what for.”

“I’m guessing Father and Grandfather had more of an effect, but tell her thank you for me,” Emma idly turned what appeared to be a key on the box. “I’ve been feeling a bit homesick.”

Emma’s look of deep longing as she ran her fingers over the fine clothes and objects from her previous life hit him like a punch in the gut. She remained pressed to her brother’s side, ignoring her possessions and the gold coins in favor of her family. As much as his warriors would debate the fact, he had stolen her from her life, kidnapped her and held her prisoner in the Hold. As beneficial as the arrangement was to both of them—and as attracted as they were to each other—he felt troubled.

It had always been the Avvar way; steal a bride, remain married for half a decade or so, move on and repeat until death. The only exception had been Alistair, who remained married to Lynn long past their original arrangement; the argument being he had no idea where Swift Fox had ended up, and he couldn’t risk being related. Cullen, of course, knew better. He knew Alistair was deeply in love with his own lowlander bride, and he was utterly devoted to her. Mere months ago, he’d called Alistair silly for it. Permanence was a lowlander illusion. Couples fell out of love, the spark faded, and people did not belong to one another. Possessions came and went, so why keep _anything_ beyond what one needed? Sentimentality was for the weak, and marriage was not for love but alliance and bloodlines. But the longer he spent with Emma, the more he began to question. To wonder. Why _was_ it done this way?

“Emma?” Helena’s soft inquiry brought Cullen out of his reverie. “Can I speak to you privately?”

“Sure,” Emma answered, looping her arm through her sister’s. “I’ll show you Starlight.”

“Starlight?” Cullen inquired, quirking his head.

“Oh,” Emma flushed, pushing her hair over her ear. His eyes flicked to the long line of exposed skin, a surge of pride swelling in his chest at the dark purple love bite just under the collar of her dress. “What I call the white horse… Aneira. The one I rode when we went riding together. She and I have a bond.”

“Then she’s yours,” Cullen pressed a kiss to her temple, taking his opportunity to card his hands through her hair before she disappeared out the door with Helena.

Cullen turned to Erik, sure he was about to get interrogated into the next Age, but the big man simply smirked and shrugged his huge shoulders; “How are you at sneaking?”

~~~

Starlight whickered affectionately at Emma when she came through the doors, nosing at her hands.

“You’re so spoiled,” Emma chuckled, handing the mare her expected peppermint treat with a fond pat on her velvet nose. “What would you without me, Star?”

“She’s magnificent,” Helena sighed, approaching the animal carefully.

“She’s my pride and joy,” Emma replied, absently stroking Starlight’s muzzle. “But we’re not here for the horse, are we?”

“Cullen seemed eager to just… give you a horse,” Helena offered.

“The Avvar have very little in the way of ownership,” Emma explained easily. Cullen had explained this to her many times, though she still had trouble wrapping her head around it. All her life, she’d had to scramble to keep what few possessions she had in her care. She treasured every item she owned, almost to the point of obsession. “These horses technically belong to the clan; I just ride Starlight a lot.”

“You seem to be quite comfortable here,” Helena said, as if she hadn’t heard Emma.

“I am,” Emma responded. “Cullen takes care of me, and I’ve come to… care for him. A great deal.”

Helena’s shrewd, grey-green eyes picked up on the pause. Her gaze was nothing if not sharp;”Emma, you have to know that Erik and I didn’t ride into the nadir of Ferelden to bring you a few trinkets and a couple sovereigns.”

Emma furrowed her brows; she, of course, found it suspicious, but she knew her mother. That woman would send an entourage to bring her a new First Day gown if necessary; of that she was certain. But something was not right about Helena. Emma’s relationship with her elder sister ranged from indifferent to convivial, so this cryptic hostility was unusual for the siblings.

“Then why are you here, Helena?” Emma asked, turning fully to face her, ignoring Starlight mouthing at the ends of her hair.

“I’m here to get you, Emma,” Helena retorted. “I can take you back to Ostwick tonight, if you’re amiable. Erik and I can take you home.”

Emma’s whole world slammed to a stop for a moment. _Home?_ To Ostwick? “What?”

“Erik and I have a plan,” Helena said with a shrug. “You and him leave; we have a ship in Gwaren waiting for us. I can leave a few days from now; by the time those Templars realize you’re missing, you’ll be long gone from this place and half-way back to Ostwick. Or we can ride to Val Royeaux, if you prefer. Once you get away from these knee-jerk hunters, you can plead your case to the Knight Vigilant--everyone knows you couldn’t kill Gerhardt—and you’ll be pardoned. We can put this whole mess behind us, once and for all.”

Emma opened and closed her mouth a few times, wondering what she was going to say. A small part of her longed for the idle comforts of Ostwick, or even the gilded cage of the Circle. As much as she loved to travel the world with her band, doing the Maker’s work and fulfilling her duty…she missed days of study and contemplation, of quiet conversation and learning. She missed her friends, and she _certainly_ missed her family. She missed her team, and the day-to-day mundane schedules of the Circle. She missed _all_ of that.

But when she thought of leaving Cullen, her heart twisted in her chest. Despite the fact he saved her life, took her in, and made her a part of his family, there was something between them. He’d been patient as she slowly grew bolder in her touches and affections. She thought of days without hearing his deep, smooth voice telling her of the Avvar ways, of tales of the Mountain Father and the Lady of the Skies and Hakkon, while she gently detangled his curls and plaiting the longer sections. She imagined waking to an empty bed in Val Royeaux as opposed to curled against his big, deeply muscled body, his arms wrapped protectively around her waist. She considered not seeing his amber eyes light up when he smiled at her, gazing at her with longing and desire and… something else. Something she couldn’t identify.

Beyond that, she thought of Alistair and Lynn, who’d grown to be close friends. She couldn’t imagine not starting her day with Rosalie plaiting an elaborate braid into her hair, or afternoons without Mia’s quiet conversations over tea. She had grown to love the life she was building with Red Lion amongst the Avvar. Some had even accepted her as their Lady, referring to her as such, ingratiating themselves to her and getting to know her, though she and Cullen hadn’t married. Days without Red Lion would be as foreign to her now as life with them had been mere months ago.

“Thank you for the offer, Helena, but I can’t,” Emma answered.

“What?” Helena seemed taken aback, though the astute knowing in her eyes gave her away. Emma’s tumultuous emotions had been on her face, as open as any book. “Emma, be reasonable!”

“I am being reasonable,” Emma rejoined. “I will _not_ leave these people to clean up _my_ mess.”

“This isn’t _your_ mess,” Helena snapped. “Templars from all over Thedas—including Ferelden, I might add—are combing these woods for them. They’ll be found, and the Avvar will be left alone.”

“I don’t believe that,” Emma said, standing straight and tall. She wasn’t taller than her sister, but she was a warrior, and she would not be cowed. “It’s my duty, Helena.”

“Is this duty, vengeance, or… something else?” Helena lifted an inquiring brow. “Emma, Mother and Father miss you! _I_ miss you! Come home, please!”

“I have made my choice, Helena,” Emma growled with a sense of finality. “I will stay with Red Lion. With Cullen.”

“What about Lyrium, Emma?” Helena pressed her fingertips to her forehead. “Or did the magical barbarian acquire _that_ too?”

“Helena!” Emma barked. “Let it go!”

Helena shook her head, her eyes still hard; “Fine. I know I won’t change your mind, but if you _do_ decide to come home, know the door is open.”

“Thank you for understanding,” Emma wrapped her arms around Helena’s shoulders, pulling her sister in close. “Come, spend the night tonight. I’d love you to meet Alistair and Lynn. Oh, and Cullen’s brother and sisters!”

~~~

Emma was saying something through the open window of the stable just above where he was hiding, but Cullen couldn’t hear her over the hammering of his heart. Her contemplative silence had been torture immediately soothed by her words.

_She was staying._

The sheer unbridled _joy_ he felt at that simple knowledge. She was staying with him, and the elated bubble in his chest threatening to burst told him one thing: he needed her. He wanted her with him always, to give him council and comfort and children; he wanted to share all his happiness and hurts with her. By the Mountain Father, but he wanted to be _hers._  

That evening, dinner was a lively affair. Rosalie asked Erik _constant_ questions about his travels. Apparently, the man wandered to all parts, exploring and adventuring. Mia, Helena and Emma were chatting enthusiastically; Lynn and Alistair joined them not long into their evening, joining in on the merriment. It was loud and a bit overwhelming, but the bliss Cullen felt could not be contained. He gazed over at Emma, with her long thick braid over her shoulder and her bright smile and open laugh and he couldn’t be happier.

Until he made eye-contact with Helena. The other woman jerked her head towards the back room and, out of sheer curiosity, he followed. He found Helena running her hands over Emma’s journal, glancing at the pages impassively.

“So if know Erik, you heard our whole conversation,” she said softly, though there was a sharp tone to her voice that told she was not to be trifled with.

“Yes,” Cullen answered. He had nothing to hide.

“She says she stays for duty,” Helena continued, setting the journal on Emma’s nightstand amongst the various things she’d collected. “She says she wants to protect you and your people out of selfless obligation, but I know better. I know my sister.”

“Do you?” Cullen wasn’t usually this evasive, but something about the way she spoke… Helena was testing him.

“She’s in love,” she said. “She may not know it yet, but she is. And Emma… she doesn’t take it lightly.”

“Who takes love lightly among the lowlanders? I was under the impression you all took it rather seriously.”

“You don’t understand,” she continued, a pleading note entering her words. “In the Circle, love is a weapon. Amongst the nobility, love is a tool. Emma had resigned herself to a loveless life from a young age, but now? You’ve given her hope, Thane Dawnbringer, and I will not see that hope dashed.”

“What do you mean?”

“I read,” Helena snapped. “I know how the Avvar take their brides; I know how marriage works amongst your people. I will _not_ leave my sister to be bedded and bred by some man and passed off like an unwanted garment, barbarian or no. If you are to love my sister, if you are to accept this _precious_ gift she offers, then you will cherish it or you won’t accept it.”

Cullen scowled. _How dare she?_ “I would never hurt Emma.”

“You say that,” Helena sighed, suddenly weary. “And I have faith that you mean it. You _really_ do. But… Emma will sacrifice _everything_ for the ones she loves. Will you protect her? From herself, and you, if it proves necessary?”

Cullen mulled the question over and over, and it only had one answer; “I will always protect her. No matter the cost.”


	10. I Want No Part Of It Anymore

They have little time for idle pleasures. Before, for some reason he had absolutely no time, but now he made himself try and find it. He stole moments between her day maintaining his household and training with his warriors and, when it can’t be avoided, leaves for days at a time on tasks that seemed so _vital_ mere months ago. Now? Now they are frivolous and perfunctory; _why_ would he need to spend four days away from his woman when he found such pleasure _here._

Cullen liked to think of himself as traditional, but the more time he spent with her, the less he believed that. He would never understand why everyone he’d ever known was so terrified of reading, and the hobby had long been his dirty little secret. Lynn had taught him and Alistair when the pair had come to Red Lion, and he tried to sneak it in as much as he could. He had a paltry collection, mostly what he could sneak in when Lynn went to the lowlander villages to trade. He’d been infinitely grateful once Emma’s collection had come to him, and they were spending a quiet summer afternoon under the massive weeping willow. She napped against his chest, her arms wrapped around his waist. She fit so perfectly there, with his arm snaked around her shoulder. He pressed a soft kiss to her temple, feeling calmed by her, by her scent. He felt like he _belonged,_ for the first time in a long time.

He felt her stirring next to him; with a grin, he peppered her temples, her cheeks, and her hair with soft, tender kisses. He brought her palm up to his cheek, nuzzling the sensitive skin, breathing in her scent. She was so beautiful, and for a moment he wondered how in the world he got so lucky.

Her beautiful blue eyes fluttered open and flicked up to his face and… nothing. There wasn’t even a shred of recognition. There was, however, _fear._

“Who are you?” she growled, her grip on his waist tightening, and not in a good way.

“Emma,” he chastised, trying to remain playful, but… her eyes narrowed. Her power burned behind them; the pupils dilated with adrenalin.

She scrambled upright, dropping into an aggressive stance; “I’ll ask once more, but not again. Who _are_ you?”

“Emma, it’s me,” he stood slowly, keeping his hands visible and pliant. He may not understand, but he knew a cornered animal when he saw one.

“How do you know my name?”

“Emma, you’ve been with me in the Hold for four moons, now! It would be ridiculous if I didn’t know your name.”

“Hold?” her head whipped around, something like familiarity passing through her expression before it was gone, quicker than he could blink. “What’s your name? Where is Ser Ulrich?”

“Emma, you don’t remember?” he reached for her, trying to connect. Something was very wrong.

In an instant, the world tilted, and with a grunt of pain he was flat on his back. The wind went right out of him; Emma didn’t give him time to recover. A surprisingly strong hand cupped his throat, not to choke but to threaten, and her free hand sparked with lightning. She pressed a knee into his diaphragm, stealing what little air he had.

_She was going to kill him._

“Emma,” he pleaded, his voice hoarse and thin. “Emma, it’s me! Come back, love, please!”

She took several deep breaths; her eyes cleared and immediately sparkled with tears. She shot off of him like she’d been burned, putting plenty of distance between them; “Maker, Cullen! I’m so sorry! I didn’t… I mean…”

“Emma, I’m OK,” he rasped, rubbing the spot where her knee had been pressed. “I’m unhurt, it’s ok. Emma, what happened?”

He reached for her, his hands brushing over her wrists, before she yanked her hands back, cupping them against her curled body.

“ _Don’t touch me!”_ she shrieked, visibly shaking.

He tried not to feel the keen sting of her rejection. His hands wavered between them, aching to reach out for her but also trying to respect her wishes. In a terrifying moment, he saw himself losing her. He saw her pulling away, and his worse fears seemed to manifest as she turned on her heels and fled as fast as her legs could carry her.

“Emma!” he called, bracing to go after her.

“Let her go.”

Cullen whirled to the voice at his elbow; Lynn was tying her long hair back in a tail, stomping into comfortable boots.

“Lynn?” he heard the pathetic melancholy in his own voice, and almost winced. “What’s happening? Why did she—.”

“I’m sorry, Thane, but I am sworn to secrecy,” Lynn answered. “I’ll come back with her, I promise.”

Lynn took off like a shot, sprinting into the woods after Emma. Suddenly, he was alone.

~~~

If she’d been even remotely cogent, she might have been proud of how accustomed to the forest she’d become. Not once did her bare feet find a rock or twig; she didn’t twist her ankle on an errant root; she was near silent save the panicked gasps tearing at her throat. She knew going without lyrium was dangerous; she knew the symptoms. But when she’d woken in Cullen’s arms, for a brief moment she hadn’t known who he was, or where she was. It scared her. She’d seen Templars lose themselves to the lyrium madness. There was no safe way to leave the order—you retired, and you die. It’s as simple as that.

The rush of the waterfall drew her back to herself, away from her pell-mell run through the woods. She’d found this spot not long after she’d come to be with the Avvar, and it was perfect for her sometimes-needed solitude. While Mia, Rosalie, Branson and Cullen were excellent company, Emma had grown up in the Circle, where quiet alone-time was a constant. She wasn’t yet accustomed to the close quarters the Avvar kept.

She sank next to the crystal-clear pool at the base of the falls, the spray soothing on her over-heated face. She began to calm, bringing her back to herself and out of her anxious mind. She blew a deep breath out through her pursed lips. She’d hoped to keep the symptoms to herself  a little longer… now it seemed it wasn’t an option.

“There she is.”

Emma tended to forget Lynn was the greatest tracker in the clan; “Lynn. What’re you doing here?”

“I saw you run off,” she sank gracefully to the ground, her knee pressing against Emma’s. “I take it your symptoms have shown themselves?”

“I figured I was one of the lucky ones,” Emma sighed. “Headaches, mild hand tremors, bad dreams… they seemed so easy to deal with. Now I’m afraid… I don’t want to lose my memories.”

Lynn wrapped a surprisingly strong arm around Emma’s shoulders; she’d been the one person whom Emma had told. She felt _wretched_ that she’d kept it from Cullen; she couldn’t shake the utterly shattered look in his eyes when she’d run from him. She wished she could take it back, but it was too late. He’d probably hand her into the Templars first thing in the morning.

_I hurt him so badly. How can I come back from this?_

“Emma, do you want my advice?” Lynn poked her in the ribs, going for playful. Emma swatted at her hand, but as always, Lynn was far and away too fast.

“Not really,” Emma grumbled, twisting her fingers in her lap.

“Well, I’m going to tell you anyway,” Lynn adjusted a lock of Emma’s hair, pulling what felt like a leaf out of it. Emma leaned into the touch, trying desperately to hold herself together. “Talk to him about it. He’ll understand.”

“You think?” Emma sighed deeply, feeling herself deflate. “I hurt him _so badly._ I don’t… I don’t deserve to go back.”

“Let me tell you a secret about our Thane,” Lynn whispered conspiratorially. “He… loves. He loves unconditionally and with his whole heart. And he forgives. He’s mad for you, Emma; he will forgive you.”

“I don’t know.”

“Just talk to him,” Lynn grabbed Emma by the upper arm, hauling her to her feet and pointing her towards the Hold. “Tell him everything; it’s what husbands and wives _do._ ”

Emma held back a choke of indignation as Lynn marched her back towards Red Lion; “I’m going to regret confiding in you, aren’t I?”

Lynn only winked a chocolate brown eye before herding her back towards the Hold.  

~~~

Cullen couldn’t sit still. He tried to wait patiently, knowing Lynn would bring her back, but the look she’d given him had gutted him. Completely. She looked so scared and small, and all he’d wanted to do was hold her and find out what was wrong, but she’d pushed him away. Branson teased him for a bit, but the disquiet in his eyes must have been evident, because he’d stopped almost immediately. Mia had taken Rosalie, retreating into their room, leaving him alone with his thoughts. Part of him feared that she wouldn’t come back, and the longer he lingered with those thoughts the more persistent they became.

_You don’t deserve her, anyway. She’s beautiful and elegant; she deserves a prince, and gold and fine things. Things you can’t give her._

He shook those dark musings off, trying to silence his own anxiety.

_You’re going to lose her; just like you lost Mother._

“No,” he murmured to himself, pinching the bridge of his nose.

_You drive everyone you love away. You ruin everything you touch._

He swore under his breath, slamming his clenched fist on the table. He was so distracted, he barely registered when the door opened. That is, until he heard her voice.

“Cullen?” Emma’s hands were on his, stroking soothing circles as she kneeled before him trying to catch his gaze. His breath caught in his chest; he slid his rough hands up her arms, feeling her warmth and smelling her scent.

“You came back,” he gasped softly. He cupped her face in his hands, pulling her up to press his forehead against hers. “Oh, Emma, I’m sorry.”

She sunk her fingers into his hair, mindful of his little plaits. “No, Cullen. Don’t apologize; this wasn’t your fault.”

“What happened?” he asked, stroking her hair away from her face, disbelief still evident in his voice.

_She’s here. With me. She came back._

Emma sighed deeply, avoiding his gaze; “We need to talk. I’ve been…keeping something from you.”

She rose smoothly to her feet, allowing her hand to slip into his as she led him into the bedroom. His concern spiked, running through possible scenarios, rejecting some of the more overtly ridiculous ones. He _hated_ his overactive imagination, and every possible horror awaited him on the other side of that door.

Shoved deep in her little trunk, under layers of fabric from her clothes, she pulled out an innocuous little box; wooden and worn from years of use, it was almost tiny in his hands. Like a jewelry box; he recognized the sword symbol on the front. The symbol of the mage hunters.

“Open it,” she said softly, sinking onto the bed next to him.

The implements within were somehow both harmless and unsettling. They were simple and worn from use. He felt drawn to the tiny stone vial, barely bigger than his thumb, dwarfed by his palm.

“Emma?” She was hiding in her curtain of hair; only now did he noticed the tremor in her hands as she twisted her fingers together. “Emma, what is this?”

“It’s lyrium,” she replied. “Or it was, once. It’s been empty for weeks now.”

“What does this—?”

“It has everything to do with today,” she shoved away from the bed, pacing back and forth. Her staccato footfalls were the only sound in the room while he waited for her to continue. “I am no fool, Cullen. Lyrium gives Templars their abilities, their resistance to magic… but it is also a collar. No one has seen a Templar or Knight Enchanter stop taking lyrium and… and live.”

Cullen felt his breath catch; “Emma, if this can kill you…”

“No!” She rounded on him, standing tall and proud, every inch the warrior she was trained to be. A Knight. “I will not… I’ve always been proud of being one of the Knights. Part of the Order. I still _am._ I had a team I loved, a duty I was _honored_ to do! But now? I… I want no part of it anymore!”

“So you stopped taking it,” he concluded, snapping the lid closed. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

He couldn’t control the hurt in his voice, if her little gasp was to be believed, but he couldn’t back down. He met her gaze, not allowing any form of indecision.

“I suppose,” she sighed deeply, seeming to collapse in on herself. “I didn’t want to put you in danger. I had enough to wean me off, and for a while it seemed I would only get the shaking and the headaches. But sometimes… lyrium can take everything from you. Your personality, your…memories. Sometimes it’s temporary, like--.”

_Like today._

“So what are you going to do?” he asked, his voice cool, lanced with pain.

“I want to stop,” she replied softly.  “I can understand if you want me to leave—I can’t in good conscience bring this sort of trouble on you. But I’m here, Cullen. I’m here at your side, but if I can’t endure this… I will die. And if you don’t want a part of that, I can be gone before dawn.”

“Why?” he asked suddenly, feeling a swell of some unidentifiable emotion in his chest.

“What?”

“Why do you want to stay?” he asked. “Not because I saved your life. Not because you fear the mage hunters. You’re braver than that. You’re more practical than that. You would have gone home when your sister offered, if that was it. Why are you here?”

“Are you,” she swallowed hard, the atmosphere of the room changing _very_ suddenly. “Are you asking me to leave?”

“No, Emma,” his voice was a dark rasp. He reached for her, sliding her hands into his. He didn’t know if the tremor was from her symptoms or from his proximity. He pressed soft kisses to each knuckle, turning her wrist to brush the sensitive skin with his nose. “I want… I have never wanted _anyone_ the way I want you. I want more than a temporary life with you. I want you with me. Always. But only if you want it. I will not force myself on you.”

She drew in a shaking breath; he could see her tears sparkling at the corners of her eyes… those beautiful blue eyes. He pulled her closer, longing to fold her into his arms, try to communicate _somehow_ that he would be here for her. He would be her strength, if he had to.

“I can’t,” she swallowed again, her breath coming in shaking gasps. “I can’t oblige being anywhere but here. I couldn’t go home with Helena because this _,_ Cullen, _this_ is home. With you. I’m broken; I probably won’t live to see 30 winters; I’m a wanted criminal who will bring you nothing but trouble. But I want to stay, if you’ll have me.”

Her hand was cupped against his jaw; he smiled against the skin of her wrist. She grossly underestimated her strength, how much he _needed_ her. He buried his face in the nook of her neck and shoulder, wrapping his arms around her waist. He held her tight; he never wanted to lose this. He’d never felt _anything_ like it. He was almost afraid at how quickly she was becoming his everything, how every little sound she made twisted his insides or sent heat curling through his core.

He wasn’t a man of words; he couldn’t spout poetry or witticisms on cue like Alistair or his brother. He couldn’t whisper sweet nothings. But he _was_ a man of decisive action. He cupped her jaw; he could feel the tremor in his own hands as he moved his thumb to skim over those _lips_. He guided her lips to his, and thrilled at the little moan that slipped through. He felt the little tremble in her lips, and pressed deeper, rolling her under him. She tilted her hips unsubtly—instinctually—and his breath caught in his throat. Everything about this woman set him aflame, and he wanted her. He held her close, carding his fingers through her soft hair, peppering her lips with kisses. He felt like he could hold her as tightly as he could, and yet it seemed like too much space. Too many barriers.

She’d laid herself bare for him, and he wanted— _oh_ how he wanted—to return that trust in kind. He wanted to show he appreciated it. He appreciated her. He held her hips, felt her thighs snake around his waist. Her tongue laved over his scar, her teeth scoring his lower lip. He pressed her into the fur. He held her to him, trying to say _everything_ he couldn’t say.

_I love you. I want you. Stay with me, always._

“Cullen,” she moaned against his mouth, her breath mingling with his. “Please, Cullen. I want you.”


	11. Be safe, mon cœur

“Please, Cullen, I want you.”

The words he’d wanted to hear for so long… They were honey to his ears. She was spread out beneath him, her movements frantic and wanton; her hands were everywhere, touching anywhere they could reach. With a low growl, he clamped his hand on the back of her neck and surged forward, securing her mouth to his. Her long legs wrapped around his hips, pressing his aching cock right against her warm center. Even through the leathers of his breeches, he could feel that searing heat, and he rocked forward. He sought it, ached for it. His body _begged_ to be closer—the tightest embrace was somehow not close enough.

It was hard to resist when she bucked beneath him, moaning into his mouth, her tongue playing gently across the roof of his mouth. That had _no right_ to feel that good. He hitched a hand under her knee, spreading her open for him. When the smell of her arousal hit him, he wavered. Something heady and primal coursed through him, and suddenly, he realized the only thing separating them was sheer willpower and a stretch of fabric. With a movement too harsh to be anything but decisive, he pulled her back, pressing her into the pillows below him.

“Emma,” he murmured, his voice a dark rasp thick with want. “You have _no idea_ how much I want you right now. It would bring me great… you have no idea how badly I want to take you; how much I want to sink into you and pleasure you until these beautiful legs tremble from just a touch. I want to make you _scream_ until everyone knows you’re mine.”

“So do it,” she growled, her blue eyes lust-blown and wide.

“I want to,” he repeated through grit teeth, clenching his fists and biting the inside of his cheek—anything to stop himself. “But not tonight, love.”

“But you just said--.”

“I know, love,” he chanced a chaste kiss at the corner of her mouth, longing to pepper every inch of her soft skin with kisses. “But you’re scared and hurting and vulnerable. I don’t want you to come to my bed out of fear or desperation; I want you to because you desire me.”

“But I _do_ desire you,” she insisted, rolling her hips once again.

He bit down a groan of desire; “I know. _Believe me,_ I know. But… not tonight? For me?”

She sighed deeply, sinking into the bed; “You know, I’m beginning to think I was grossly misinformed of how you Avvar treat your women.”

“I’ll take that as a good thing,” Cullen chuckled, brushing his lips across the column of her throat. She really was so lovely…

They were interrupted by Mia softly knocking on the door; “Cullen! Alistair is here.”

Cullen groaned into his pillow, sorely tempted to tell him to fuck off, but he knew better. Alistair wouldn’t be on his doorstep if it wasn’t important, so reluctantly, he extricated himself from Emma’s arms.

“Sorry, love,” he murmured against her lips. “Duty calls.”

“I understand,” she sighs, her look of chagrin clearly teasing in nature. “This whole ‘being a leader of your people’ is cutting in to my post-panic alone time with you.”

He sniggered low in his throat, feeling a swell of giddiness he dared not examine threaten to burst in his chest. She was right; his obligation often cut into his time he could spend with his lady. _His Lady._ He chanced a kiss, trying to conceal the sudden rush of dangerous longing. He allowed his touch to linger—he was finding he couldn’t get enough of her.

~~~

Cullen seemed almost…reluctant as he pulled away from her, and she welcomed his hands on her. This was getting _ridiculous_. They’d reached levels of intimacy she could only dream about at one point; she’d practically thrown herself at him, and yet he’d said no. If he’d been a different man, she would almost think her wanton actions had staked the heart of his respect for her. But she knew him, and she’d seen how much he wanted her. Something was holding him back; she wasn’t sure what.

She always felt chilled after her symptoms passed, so she changed into soft breeches and a long-sleeved shirt of Cullen’s she’d come to love. She practically swam in it, but it smelled like him and was softened from long wear. She followed him out into the kitchen; Mia and Rosalie appeared to have been banished to the other room, while Branson, Cullen and Alistair gathered around the small table. To say Cullen looked upset would be the understatement of the age.

“Cullen, what’s wrong?” she asked, putting gentle hands on his shoulders. She tried to ignore the ache of rejection when he shrugged her touch away.

“One too many times,” Cullen growled, standing so abruptly, Emma had to scramble backwards. “Too many!”

“Cullen?”

“A Thane Skinchanger, of Clan Dark Wolf, has settled nearby,” Alistair explained, his expression and stance grim.  

“This makes him an Oath-Breaker,” Branson elaborated, seeing Cullen wouldn’t be much for explanation in his current state of frothing rage.

“I won’t let him!” Cullen snarled. “We raid Dark Wolf _tonight._ ”

“What?” Emma surged forward, grasping his forearm. “Cullen, you can’t! Isn’t there a way to--?”

“There isn’t,” Branson cut her off, his look as dark as his brother’s. “Skinchanger betrayed our father many years ago; his oath was to maintain a certain distance to Red Lion hold, and Father’s grave.”

“And he has broken that oath,” Cullen growled, already pulling his leather armor pieces out of a small trunk. “And for that, he will _pay._ Alistair, Bran, gather the warriors. We leave at sunset.”

“Yes, Thane,” Branson answered, and Emma felt ice settle in her stomach. Bran _never_ called Cullen ‘Thane’. The situation was grave, indeed.

“Help me with these, would you?” Cullen indicated his leather bracers, and Emma began working the ties. He had his fingers pressed to his forehead, his face crumpled in obvious distress.

“Cullen?” she murmured, moving to help him into his cuirass.

“Don’t,” Cullen snapped, grunting when she pulled the laces tight. “ _Nothing_ you say will change my mind.”

“I know,” Emma answered, pulling his furred mantle off of him, replacing it with a pair of leather pauldrons. “I wouldn’t ask. But I _do_ want to go with you.”

“No,” Cullen said shortly, tucking his lion’s maw helm under his arm, indicating his greatsword with a jerk of his chin.

“I know I can’t leave the Hold, but—“

“It’s not about that, love.”

“Then what,” Emma put her hands on her hips, sticking her chin out stubbornly. “What _is_ it about? Are you trying to protect me? Because if you are, Cullen, I am better than most of your warriors. I would be invaluable to your fight!”

“Yes, you would be invaluable,” Cullen replied, cupping her jaw in his free hand. The leather of his glove was… odd. She wasn’t used to touching something other than his bare skin. “That’s why I need you here.”

“What?” Emma leaned into his touch, holding his hand to her. She _had_ to go with him! If Alistair’s grave tone had been any indicator, this raid would be horrifically dangerous and she wanted to be by his side. There was so much she wanted to say, and yet so much she wasn’t ready for. Her heart ached when the mere thought of _losing him_ began to intrude.

“Emma,” he brushed her hair back in such a tender gesture, his lips a mere inch from hers. All she had to do was surge forward to capture his kiss… “You are one of my strongest warriors; you are the Lady of Red Lion, in name if not in practice. _Yet._ I need you here to do your duty. Protect our people.”

_Our people. Not his._

“I don’t understand,” she said, following him towards the door. She could see the teams of warriors gathering by the entrance to the Hold. Alistair was pulling Lynn’s hood over her dark hair, their heads bent tenderly towards one another. _Together or not at all._ “Cullen, _please!”_

“I can’t, Emma,” he replied, his face crumpled with _something_ she couldn’t identify. “I _can’t._ I need to know you’re safe, and I know you can protect the Hold. I want you _nowhere near_ Skinchanger, and I don’t want to risk the mage hunters’ wrath. This is the only way, Emma. Please trust me.”

Emma opened her mouth to argue, but before she could, Cullen swooped down on her, kissing her hard, pulling her close. All protests died in her throat as he pulled away from her, his hands lingering on her waist.

“I’ll be back in a few days,” he whispered into her ear as he pressed soft kisses against her temple. “I promise. Just take care of everyone for me.”

“I will,” she vowed, sweeping in for one more fierce embrace before he had to pull away. “Be safe, _mon cœur_. Please.”

“Always,” he sighed against her cheek, extricating himself by reluctant degrees.

She watched him leave until long after he’d disappeared into the woods.

~~~

The first few days weren’t awful, as far as being on her own in the Hold were concerned. The people seemed to respect her, and often came to her with kind words and pleas of advice. Mia and Rosalie kept her company as well. She learned the herb garden that Mia fastidiously attended to, and biggest surprise of all—Erik had been sending letters to Rosalie. Emma spent nights helping Rosalie read them, and it was clear—the pair was infatuated with one another.

By the eighth day, Emma grew nervous, though she never let it show. It was near impossible for her to get news of him, but still she feared when she hear _nothing._ Not even a vanguard or forward scouting party to let them know their Thane returned… or that he had fallen. She tried to keep the adage ‘no news is good news’ in the forefront of her mind. Despite that, though, she found her mind wandering to their goodbye. So many things she wanted to say…

And now she may not get the opportunity to say _any of it._ She tried to ignore the keen sting of regret at the thought, even though she grew increasingly distracted as the days wore on.

“He’ll come back in time,” Mia said from somewhere around Emma’s shoulder. Emma, ever the vigilant warrior, started nearly a foot in the air.

“Mia!” Emma pressed a hand to her breast. “You scared me!”

“You’re fussing,” Mia deadpanned with a nonchalant shrug. “Also, you’ve been washing that plate for some time—it’s clean.”

“Apologies,” Emma murmured, a flush of embarrassment creeping across her cheeks. “I’m just… so worried. “

“There is no need to worry,” Mia retorted with an easy wave of her hand before she returned to her embroidery. “He will come back or he won’t; worrying will only give that pretty face wrinkles.”

Emma scowled and began scrubbing the plates with new fervor; as if it was that easy. The way Cullen had spoken of Skinchanger, he sounded quite the warrior, and according to some of Red Lion’s veterans, it wasn’t the Thane but his wife one needed fear. As a pair they were deadly, ruthless, and near unstoppable. Rumors had circulated for years that Skinchanger had been responsible for Thane Beast-Father’s, and thus Cullen’s father’s, death. A man with a name like Beast-Father… and this man supposedly killed him. What sort of warrior did that make him? And what chance had Cullen of returning?

She shook her head violently, dislodging a long strand of hair from her braid. Cullen was one of the finest swordsman she’d ever met—better than many of the Templars she’d trained with—and she knew intellectually that he would most likely be fine. He was surrounded by his finest men and women—Lynn and Alistair alone probably could have single-handedly stopped a Blight, left to their own devices—and coupled with his skill, he should have been fine.

Rosalie had told her they were most likely burdened with the spoils of the Raid, which made sense. But there was a nagging feeling in her gut that something was wrong. Suddenly, the close confines of the house were _too close_ , and she needed to get out. She set the plate back on the counter and swept through the door, taking deep, gasping breaths in the fresh summer air.

“He’s going to be OK,” she whispered to herself, mostly trying to convince her own heart. “He’s going to be fine. He will return.”

A stir by the gates drew her attention, and a fresh wave of relief crashed over her. She heard a call from the scout posts; “The warriors return!”

With a great cry of joy, she rushed towards the entrance of the Hold. She vaguely registered Mia and Rosalie emerging from the house, but all she knew was it had been more than a week, and she _missed him_. She pressed through the crowd, all the while searching for his tell-tale golden curls, and when she saw him and Bran…

Her heart instantly dropped to the pit of her stomach.

He leaned heavily on his brother, who struggled under his bulk with his own injuries. Alistair looked like he wanted to help, but he was cradling an unconscious Lynn against his chest; no one in the Hold looked unbloodied. Emma rushed forward; “Bran! Bran, what happened?”

“Help me with him,” Bran gritted through tightly-clenched teeth. He was in extraordinary pain, if his posture was to be believed.

Emma slide her arm under Cullen’s shoulder, and he didn’t look much better. A thick bandage, black with blood, was plastered to his side; what bare skin she could see was mottled with angry bruises, but most unsettling was the fine sheen of sweat and the clouded delirium in his eyes. She pressed her hand against his forehead and recoiled—he burned with fever.

“Bran, what happened?” she repeated, though quieter as she allowed Cullen to lean on her.

Bran wouldn’t look her in the eyes; there was something unsettling and ominous about his usually-sunny demeanor.

“We were betrayed.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I took a brief break for FenHawke week; all of that will be posted here come the end of the week. 
> 
> Skinchanger is the name of the Thane from "Captivated", and I hope you guys don't mind, but I borrowed it. :)


	12. Never Again

It took some effort, but they managed to get Cullen to the house; Mia swept her arm along the kitchen table to clear a space. Emma helped Branson lower him to the rough surface, Healer Minerva’s words rushing through her mind.

_Apprentice Trevelyan, what is the first thing we check in field emergencies such as this?_

_The eyes!_

“Move!” Emma snapped, peeling open his eyelids, conjuring the tiny ball of mage-light Minerva had taught her. She breathed a sigh of relief when his eyes proved clear, uniform and responsive, which ruled out some of the worse poisons and injuries she knew of. She then began to scan down his body, looking for _anything_ that would help. The wound wasn’t exactly small, but it didn’t account for his severely weakened state and frighteningly high fever.

“Don’t you have a healer?” Emma asked, trying to calm the panic in her voice.

“We do,” Branson replied, but he was uneasy. He left what he was thinking hang in the air over his dying brother—he didn’t know if the healer could be trusted, or if anyone within the Hold could be trusted.

“I see,” Emma sighed. “I’ll need to examine the wound. Where is it?” Branson pointed to an area on Cullen’s cuirass—blackened with blood and just shy of mangled.

“We’ll need to strip him,” Mia offered, already working at the laces. “Rosalie, take off his mantle, Emma and I will work on his vest.”

“Of course.” Rosalie sprung into action, undoing the series of buckles that kept the sturdy fur and leather in place. Within almost no time, he was bared to the waist, and Emma couldn’t get over how small he looked. The wound was covered in blood, and much of the skin on his torso was mottled with angry-looking bruises.

“Hot water,” Emma said under her breath. “And clean towels.”

“Of course,” Mia replied to Emma’s unspoken command, placing a soothing hand on her shoulder. “Emma, we’ll do everything we can. He’ll pull through.”

Emma set to work, remembering her field training like she’d been through the class yesterday. _Sterilize your hands as best you can; infection can kill faster than bleeding out. Clean the affected area. Check for foreign objects. Inspect the skin around the injury._

“Oh, Maker!” Emma gasped when his skin was cleaned.

An upward stab in his side, as well as a puncture wound on his left shoulder: they looked bad, but Emma knew they were deceptively simple to fix. What was _bad_ was the creeping red web of veins _around_ the wounds.

“He’s been poisoned,” she fairly whimpered, despite her best efforts to maintain a level voice.

“By what?” Mia asked, pressing a cool cloth to Cullen’s burning forehead.

When Bran offered no answers, and the lesions were inspected for shards or splinters, Emma pondered the herb garden. This type of poison hadn’t been common in her training because Wyverns weren’t common in the Free Marches.

_Wyverns!_

“Mia, I need Crystal Grace, Dawn Lotus, and a Royal Elfroot, if you have it. If not, then a standard Elfroot will do, but it is not ideal.”

“Fresh or dry?” Mia asked, grabbing a wide, flat basket.

“Dried Grace, fresh Lotus,” Emma answered shortly, twisting a damp cloth in her hands, pouring Ice magic into it. “The Elfroot matters not, just a few intact leaves of either will do.”

“Rose,” Mia snapped, moving towards the entryway. “The jar over the fireplace for the Elfroot,, and the Grace is hanging in my room.”

Rosalie retrieved the herbs before taking Emma’s place keeping Cullen’s cold compress on his forehead. There were only nine or ten dried leaves in the jar, but it would do. Emma retrieved a mortar and pestle and set to work. She tried to concentrate on measuring carefully, grinding enough, mixing it thoroughly, but he was shaking and shivering. He was turning an alarming pallor; Maker, it was so hard to see him like this.

“Bran,” Mia murmured, placing the boiling water and basket of delicate white flowers well within reach of Emma. “What in the Lady’s name happened?”

Bran sighed deeply, sinking into one of the chairs. He brushed his hand through slightly-singed blonde curls and he looked _so much_ like Cullen, it ached. Emma tried to concentrate on her memories, bring back her training, but the tale Branson spun caused ice cold dread to curl in her stomach.

“The four of us--Alistair, Lynn, Cullen and I—were assigned to go around the back of the Hold, take out Skinchanger’s warriors, and face the Thane in his longhouse. Things seemed to be going smoothly—the Hold Beast was dead, the vanguard routed… but when we got to the Thane’s hall, no one seemed to be there. We were heading back to the rendezvous point, but…”

“But,” Mia prompted, but her brother seemed hesitant to continue.

“We found one of those… explosive bottles Emma was so afraid of,” Bran intoned gravely. “When we tried to dodge it, we walked straight into an ambush. We didn’t… we couldn’t see our attackers, but they left Alistair and I alone. Lynn got caught in the blast and Cullen…”

Branson gestured vaguely towards his brother, dangerous tears prickling at the corners of his eyes. Mia wrapped her arms around his shoulder, trying to still his shaking.

“How do you know you were betrayed?” Rose asked softly.

“No one _knew!”_ Branson exclaimed. “Damn it, Rose, the only people who knew we were going to take that path were the warriors! So unless Lynn missed someone when she was scouting--.”

“Lynn doesn’t miss,” Mia interjected, solemn understanding darkening her amber eyes.

“Exactly,” Branson glowered at nothing in particular, obviously taking some measure of responsibility. “That means they were _told._ ”

“Hence why you didn’t want to fetch the healer,” Emma finished Crystal Grace poultice, spreading it over the wounds, before setting to work on steeping the Dawn Lotus in the hot water.

“Exactly,” Branson replied. “We don’t know who did, and besides, Axel will be busy with Lynn for a while. She… she wasn’t looking well.”

“Oh, those poor boys.” Mia made some sort of religious gesture with her hands. “To see their mother in such a state…”

“Alistair wasn’t doing well either,” Bran sighed. “He’s been with Lynn for so long, I don’t think he can imagine life without her.”

Emma swallowed hard; Lynn was her dear friend, and if she passed… She couldn’t even _think_ about it. She turned to Rosalie and the task at hand; “Rose, tip his head back for me. Open his mouth.”

She carefully poured the mixture down his throat, massaging his neck to get him to swallow. Thankfully, his shaking had stopped, but he was out cold. Once the poultice was dried over, Emma pressed two dried Elfroot leaves to each wound before wrapping bandages tight.

“I’ve done all I can,” Emma muttered darkly. She ran her hands through her hair, feeling a bit sick when she saw she was covered in blood. _His blood._ “Please get him into bed; I’m going to wash up.”

She could have easily used the basin in the kitchen, but she had to get out of the house. The whole front room smelled of blood and medicinal herbs, and the fresh air helped calm her fluttering heartbeat. She felt like hundreds of frightened birds had filled her chest; she was no healer, and she’d only drawn on the best she could from her previous field training. She felt cold, and the normally-refreshing brook felt like washing with sand. She felt like she’d only just started to get to know Cullen, and now she feared she may lose him.

Once she was confident she was mostly clean, she made her way back to the house. She ran into Alistair outside of his home, twisting his hands nervously against his lap. His hazel eyes, normally crinkled at the corner in a bright, puppy-like smile, were rimmed with red. He’d been crying.

“Emma,” he tried for an easy grin, but it quickly crumpled, fresh tears streaking through the grime on his cheeks.

“How’s Lynn?” Emma settled next to him, wrapping her arm around his broad shoulders. He was shaking so badly; it was more like embracing a young boy than a grown man.

“Bad,” Alistair answered. “Axel is really talented, but I'm worried. She... there was a lot of blood.”

Emma held him a little tighter, trying to hold herself together. First the man she was coming to care a great deal for, and now her best friend. She hadn't known someone she loved like Lynn since her earliest days in Ostwick's circle, and her husband had been a friend and brother to Cullen for many years.

“How's Cullen?” Alistair asked, leaning into Emma's touch.

“He's...” Emma sighed, running her hands through her hair. “He's not good, Alistair. I'm afraid... my skills are not insignificant, but I am no spirit healer.”

“He's strong,” Alistair offered. “I'm sure, left in your capable hands, that he will make it.”

“Thank you,” Emma replied, surprisingly comforted by his words. “That means a lot.”

“Pass on my prayers,” Alistair moved to stand, brushing the dust from his breeches. “I'm going to return to Lynn's bedside. Hopefully, Axel will have more news for me.”

“I hope everything turns out,” Emma murmured, trying her level best to keep the cold disquiet she felt to her core out of her voice.

It was sudden, and a brotherly gesture, but when Alistair swept her into his arms, holding her against his big body, for a moment she thought of Gerhardt. She thought of the _other_ man she couldn't save, how she'd lost him to traitors, and how he would sometimes hold her like this. Dangerous, awful sobs choked her, and she suddenly feared being dragged under by her own grief.

“I'm here for you, Emma,” Alistair murmured, patting Emma's hair. He held her tightly and treated her gently. “Whatever you need.”

“Thank you,” she whispered. She watched her tears splatter onto Alistair's shoulder, but he didn't seem at all bothered by it.

She made her way back to the house once she'd calmed down a bit. Rosalie was absently cleaning the table, though it appeared she'd been rubbing at the same long-clean spot for a while. Branson was nowhere to be found, and when Mia emerged from Cullen's room, Emma felt her heart drop into her stomach.

Mia placed what she thought was supposed to be a comforting hand on Emma's shoulder, but the way it shook belied her anxiety; “We've done everything we can. It's up to him now.”

Emma nodded and made her way into the back, nearly choking on her own sobs; he looked so small and frail. He was propped gently against their pillows, their blanket tucked in and around his chest. He wasn't quite as pale, and his breath was coming easier, but he still burned with fever.

“Maker, Cullen,” she whimpered, tugging absently at a fistful of her own hair. “How... how am I supposed to keep fighting? You told me to protect them; you were supposed to protect yourself. I should have _been_ there, I should have _done something._ But... I suppose it doesn't matter now. Just, please. Get better, or I shall be quite cross with you.”

She knew he couldn't hear her, and yet they were things that had to be said. There were still so many things she couldn't say, but she could say this. She could tell him to get better and she could keep her vigil. He would make it.

He had to.

~~~

He slept in fits, at once too hot and unbearably cold. He shook, and struggled to breathe.

He had horrible nightmares, mostly about being surrounded by flames and choking, sickly smoke with no way out. He heard the dull buzz of voices coming and going, but the _one thing_ that kept him grounded was her—namely, the scent of the honeysuckle and rosemary she used to perfume her hair. She was never far, and he clung to that thread while he drifted in and out of consciousness.

Finally, late one evening, he woke. His head ached and he was drenched in sweat, but he was lucid which was a marked improvement. He peeled his eyes open, the only light in his bedroom the silvery moon beaming through the window. The shutters had been tossed open, catching a fresh cool breeze. Cullen tried to lift his good hand to brush his curls from his eyes, but it seemed to be trapped beneath something.

He chanced a look down towards his waist and felt his heart clench. In a position that couldn't have been comfortable, Emma was draped across the bed, her cheek resting on his hand. She looked strangely vulnerable and yet also protective. He couldn't quite identify the feeling that emerged when he woke with this beautiful, strong woman asleep at his bedside.

She'd been worried.

He dislodged his hand carefully, gently patting her hair. It was so soft under his calloused fingers; he would never stop marveling at it. Her face twitched, her nose wrinkling, and a soft sigh escaped those impossibly full lips.

Oh, by the Mountain-Father he wanted to marry this woman. He'd been unsure before, but now? Seeing her below him, knowing she'd spent sleepless nights at his side, sure that she was the one who'd saved him, he knew he was in love. Irrevocably so. She was worth fighting for. She was worth giving it all up for. That, he knew for certain.

“Emma,” he whispered, curling his finger around the shell of her ear. _Is their no part of this woman that isn't impossibly delicate? “_ Emma, love wake up. You can't be comfortable like that.”

Her eyes fluttered open before she was even fully aware; with a sharp intake of breath, she was awake and on him; “Cullen! Oh, Maker, you're alive!”

“I am,” Cullen had to chuckle a bit.

She adjusted herself so she sat gingerly at his side. She smoothed her hand down the planes of his face, her knuckles brushing the sensitive skin under his jaw before settling on the curve of his neck.

“Don't you ever do that again,” she chastised, gifting him with a playful flick on his forehead.

“Emma, I'm not going anywhere for some time yet,” he replied, running the pad of his thumb over the perfect pout of her bottom lip.

“Good,” she harrumphed, her expression triumphant and a touch smug. “Because if you do I will be _quite_ cross with you.”

He gave a short laugh, followed by a wince of pain; “As my Lady commands.”

“That's more like it,” she gave him a superior smirk before moving the blanket to check his bandages. “Well, your fever has gone down and infection doesn't seem to be settling in. There is little evidence of the venom—bad news, Thane Dawnbringer, but I think you may yet live to fight another day.”

“Glad to hear it,” he answered easily. He wrapped his arm around her waist, and when she placed her hands over his heart only then did he notice the terrible trembling in her fingers. “Love, I'm fine. I will be right as rain in no time, thanks to you. You saved my life.”

“Never again, Cullen!” she exclaimed, tears suddenly coloring her voice. “Do you hear me? Never again!”

“Oh, Emma,” he muttered, drawing her close. “I'm alright. See? I'll be fine.”

“Cullen I couldn't,” she swallowed hard, painful gasps choking on her awful tears. “I can't. I can't bear to lose you, do you hear me? From now on... together, or not at all.”

He wanted to protest—it wasn't how things were done. The Lady stayed and protected the Clan, but he'd been as miserable and lonely without her there as well. He couldn't abide the idea of leaving her in the hold alone. If he had died in the field, he would have...

He had to kiss her. He _needed_ to kiss her. He drew her in to him, his heart bare for him. He slanted his mouth over hers, pressing his lips against hers. He kissed her like they would have no other, trying to pour his worries and regrets into the tender way he held her. He'd almost lost her, left her alone in this Lion's den, and when her broken sobs plucked at something primal and protective in him...

“Come,” he patted the bed next to him, lifting the covers. With no hesitation, she slotted herself next to him, drawing close. He _needed_ to feel her by his side. He needed to hold her and convince himself this was all real. In the morning, they would need a plan. In the morning, they would need to act. But now, he just wanted to feel her next to him, feeling her heart pound under his hands.

Seemed he had some decisions to make.

 

 


	13. Dance With Me

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: Threatened Sexual Assault

Through careful application of cobbled-together skills and making it up as they went, Mia and Emma managed to get Cullen back onto his feet within a few days. Of course, he still had a ways to go—the poison wasn't out of his system yet—but by the third day, he can at least move about the house. Emma thanked the Maker for that daily, because not only was she thrilled to see him on the road to recovery, but she could think of few things worse than a bed-ridden, house-bound Cullen. If he wasn't insufferably needy and required constant supervision, if she took her eyes off him for longer than a few seconds, he was trying to get up and risk tearing open his wounds. She'd taken to sitting at his bedside for those days; he seemed hungry for stories of her people—Fereldan heroes like Calenhad, or stories of Maferath and Andraste, or the first Grey Wardens and the fall of Dumat. He asked her endless questions of her family, but especially Gerhardt.

And she told him. She told him of her childhood in Ostwick, which then led to her adolescence in the Circle. She told him of her lessons and the Knight Commander bringing her into his office one day, saying she had potential to follow the prestigious Knight-Enchanter path. She told him of her preparations and her vigil, which led to her first philter. She told him of Knight-Lieutenant Ulrich and their first assignments; of her travels in the Anderfels and Rivain and Ferelden; of glittering Val Royeaux and its gleaming Spire, of hunting apostates in the impossibly green Dales or the towering white peaks of the Emprise. It made her nostalgic, and it hurt a bit, but seeing his wide-eyed wonder at the way she described the Waking Sea or the endless sands of the Western Approach, or the towering trees as big around as four men in the Emerald Graves, it also made her consider something she'd never thought of before.

She'd always assumed Cullen was perfectly content with his life in the Hold, but the more she watched, the more she saw him chafe at some of the traditions. She'd always wondered why he hadn't taken her to wife yet, but now? A small, hopeful part of her thought that perhaps... Either way, it didn't matter, because they needed a plan of action. Cullen was going to hold off revealing his recovery for a few more days until the Midsummer festival; the Fire Dance. He would take that opportunity to dole out the spoils from the raid, but it gave time

“I want you to keep carrying on like I'm on death's door,” Cullen demanded. “I want you to take very careful note of who approaches you and why. It shouldn't be many.”

As Cullen had predicted, most people kept a respectful distance as she went about her business in the Hold, but three people approached. Alistair came to her, of course. Lynn was apparently on the road to recovery, and Emma sent up a small prayer of thanks to Andraste. Krem also came to her, and she logged that encounter away for future reference.

The day before the festival, Karras approached her while she spent some time in the stable with Vidar, who's been a bit neglected lately. She could tell the moment he walked in—the man had an aura about him that set her teeth on edge.

“My lady,” he drawled, bowing at the waist.

“Karras,” she answered shortly with a nod of her head. She thought of the brief practice she'd received playing the Great Game. The Orlesian Circle was steeped in it, and her mother had instilled a healthy respect for it at a young age. Who knew she would play it here, of all places?

“How fairs Thane Dawnbringer?” he asked easily, though his posture was designed to intimidate. Emma snorted under her breath; did she _see_ her twin brother? “His family? They must be devastated.”

“We endure,” Emma dead-panned, trying to infuse her voice with just the right amount of worry and grief. She wasn't exactly lying, per se, but she played a dangerous game now.

“I caught a glimpse of the Thane's injuries. Terrible shame,” Karras sighed, leaning heavily on the post immediately behind her. He was looming, but Emma noted with amusement he avoided Vidar. “He must be in such pain.”

Emma quirked her brow, but still refused to turn to him; “Mia and I are doing all we can.”

“What's a real pity,” Karras began to pace, drawing closer with each pass, until she could feel his heat against her back. “Is that he doesn't have an heir. The trials to select a new Thane are... taxing. And of course, the Thane would have to take a new Lady.”

“Is that so?”

“I know he hasn't taken you,” his voice was right at her ear now, his breath ghosting over her neck. Her hackles immediately went up, and she was painfully aware of the fact his hands hovered over her hip. “You may have the rest of this Hold convinced, but not me. I know a claimed woman when I see one, and you're still too headstrong to be a broken filly, Lass.”

She couldn't suppress her shudder at the obvious threat in his voice; “Excuse me?”

He wrapped his arm around her upper arm, whirling her into his chest. She struggled against his grasp, but unfortunately he was quite a bit stronger than her; “You think his family will keep you when they see what a burden you are? You think that headstrong brother will take you? Or that soft-hearted Alistair, who can't bear to leave that whore of a wife of his? No, they will see sense and return you to the Mage Hunters, like I told them from the beginning. But I can protect you, filly. I'll keep you and protect you; I'll fuck you proper.”

“Unhand me, Karras,” she snarled, though the edge of fear in her voice took the sting out of her command. “I am _still_ the lady of Red Lion!”

“Not for long, filly,” he cooed, his callused hand grasping her by the chin. His foul breath gusted over her face, and he was a mere hairsbreadth from her mouth. He slid his hand down to cup her throat, putting just enough pressure to threaten. She felt her eyes widen with fright, and Karras cackled. “I can't wait to see you wear that face while you're on your knees. See you at the festival, _my lady._ ”

Emma shook uncontrollably; her legs gave out and she sank to the hay. It would be a long time before she forgot those beady, black eyes gazing at her with a dangerous hunger. Her arm throbbed and her skin crawled where he had grabbed her, and suddenly she felt the need to bathe. Cullen didn't need to know about this. Not this part. He would never want to touch her again.

Not now that she'd been tainted.

~~~

She returned later that evening, trying her level best to appear at least neutral. She was sure that if Cullen hadn't been addled with the potion she'd been making him take, he would have picked up on it. He would be repulsed, call her a whole, toss her out bodily. She knew it. And she couldn't handle that... not right now. Karras's threat may have been empty, but it lingered, and she couldn't shake the mental image.

“Welcome back,” Cullen called from a stool by the water basin. Rosalie was replacing his bandages, and the sharp, sweet smell of Crystal Grace filled the kitchen. “Any news?”

“Well, a few people asked me about you,” Emma moved past him, washing her hands in the basin. She grabbed a handful of the cool water and splashed her over-heated face, trying to calm her trembling. This close, he would definitely pick up on her distress... why was she standing this close if she wanted distance? That's what she wanted, right?

“Don't leave us in suspense,” Rosalie quipped, and Emma very nearly snorted. It was Erik's signature phrase, usually when he was teasing her. Despite rarely speaking with her brother, it was pretty clear that Rose had it pretty bad.

“Well, Alistair came to me, but I assume it's because he's inpatient and can't wait for me to announce it one way or another.”

“You assume correctly,” Cullen answered, struggling with his shirt. The range of motion hadn't quite returned to his shoulder.

“Here, let me,” Emma said softly, pushing him down to the stool. He was still taller than her, after all. It surprised her—she figured a proud man like him wouldn't abide her assistance in dressing him, but he was relaxed and pliant as she guided his arms through the short sleeves. His head poked through the collar, and he gave her a sleepy smile; she couldn't resist those impossible soft curls. She ran her fingers through them, reveling in their softness and feeling a strange tug when he leaned into her touch. His hands settled on her waist, but instead of invoking Karras's rough touch, it only served to sooth her frayed nerves. She still couldn't close her eyes without seeing his awful leer, but it helped.

“Anyone else?” he asked, leaning his forehead over her rib cage, just below her breasts. He encircled her with his arms, much like a child with a beloved toy.

“Krem came to me earlier today,” Emma replied easily, trying to enjoy this moment.

Cullen snorted, his voice muffled by her skin; “A combination of concern and hating the idea of losing a bet with The Iron Bull.”

“Iron Bull?” Emma cocked her head, but he couldn't see her, buried in her embrace as he was. “And what bet.”

“No changing the subject,” Cullen poked her playfully in the side. “Anyone else?”

Emma bit her lip; should she tell him? He was still healing, and the reveal would undermine his entrance at the festival tomorrow. Something told her he would march over to Karras's cabin and give him what for. She figured hiding it, though, would send the wrong message to the wrong people, and she didn't want Cullen thinking for one second she was anything but faithful to him.

“Karras came to me in the stable,” she murmured, tensing in his arms. “He asked how you were healing, and how the family was doing. He seemed rather convinced you wouldn't live to see the month's end.”

“Anything else?” Cullen asked, pulling back from her slightly. He must have sensed the tension in her posture, because his warm amber eyes were alight with concern. “Emma?”

Emma couldn't make eye-contact. She thought of his hands on her, the dark threat in his voice, the menace in his stance... she'd rarely in her life felt powerless. She remembered a young Knight in the Ostwick Circle who'd liked to take advantage of the apprentices, and the Knight Commander had seen him thrown bodily from the Order. The members of her team had maintained a safe distance, except, of course Ser Ulrich.

“No,” Emma replied. She already felt sick to her stomach remembering his touch. She felt dirty, like he'd left his mark on a piece of her. If Cullen knew, he would never want to touch her. She wouldn't be worthy of being by his side. And she couldn't bare that.

~~~

Cullen brought Emma to the Thane's hall early in the afternoon, long before the Festival was to begin. He wanted to be on his throne as people were arriving—it would afford him the ability to see everyone that came through the door. He noted reactions of his people, and also reminded himself to later assign terrible watches to the men who allowed their eyes to openly linger on his woman.

Not that he could blame them; she stood tall and confident by his side, bedecked in a dress of the loveliest sapphire silk. It was snug through the bodice and felt to the floor, but the slits all the way up to her hips left little to the imagination. The back dipped so low, he could see the dimples on either side of her spine, just above the curve of her ass, and alluring silvery hair-thin strands draped around her shoulders. She looked positively delectable, and it took much of his self control to keep his hands to himself.

What concerned him the most, though, wasn't her dress (or the fact her unbound, golden hair fell in soft waves around her shoulders, making it even harder not to touch) was her distance. Something had happened with Karras—that much he knew. The second she'd said something, she'd shut down completely. She would not elaborate at all, but if Karras's dark looks at her combined with his shattered shock of seeing his Thane not only alive but well upon his throne... Cullen suspected, and he'd long ago learned to trust his gut.

The dances began as the sun set, as was tradition. He couldn't help but notice Rosalie's gown—a soft, silk dress of the softest lavender—which was also from Emma's small collection. Emma had been exasperated when her mother had sent her formal dresses, but Rosalie's enthusiasm had certainly eased her mind. They both whirled and twirled around the fires, Emma pulling her skirts to the side, giving him an alluring view of the long line of her leg. Her thighs and calves were crisscrossed with pale scars from hard-won battles, but he found the effect intoxicating. He reminded himself he'd seen far more skin on her, but the flashes of creamy flesh beneath jewel-toned silk sent primal urges through his core, and oh how he wanted her. Now that he was largely recovered, if not fully healed, he would have her, if she would have him.

The music changed, and couples began pairing off. Cullen hadn't ever participated in this dance, but he'd always wanted to. According to legend, a pair who participated in this dance would find happiness, prosperity, and love in their marriage. Emma moved away from the dancers, but his hand around her waist, pressed as it was against her bare skin, paused her in her tracks.

“Dance with me?” he asked, low and warm. He practically purred his request, and he felt a swell of masculine pride at the little shiver than ran through her.

“I don't know the steps,” she murmured, pressing against his side.

“I'll teach you,” he said softly, capturing her wrist in his other hand, placing her hand over the curve of his waist. “It's simple, really.”

Most Avvar dances were singular events, power in motion; they often reminded him of earth of water in their force and fluidity. This dance reminded him of fire; they moved around one another, always touching... The music raised to a crescendo and he lifted her in a high arc; she braced her hands against his shoulders, her hair a heavy fall around her face. She was laughing a bright, uninhabited giggle as he turned her again. Her skirts moved about his legs, and an attractive flush worked its way across her face and neck.

He presased against her back, turning her to him and lifting her above him. Her scent was heady, and her dress gathered under his hands. He felt sweat gather on her skin and her eyes darken as his eyes flashed to her lips. They were closer than anyone else, pressed together, held together by an invisible force. He cradled the back of her head in his hands, the soft caress of her hair against his skin entrancing. He drank in the soft give of her skin, the lush curves of her body; her breasts heaved with her breathless gasps, and her mouth was parted in an alluring pout. They were pressed against one another, tight and flush, and he _needed_ to feel her skin on his. He felt her nipples pebble against his chest through the flimsy fabric of her bodice, and when she dragged herself against him he felt the whole world shift.

“Cullen,” she moaned, her blue eyes dark with desire. “Take me somewhere... private. _Please._ If I don't feel your hands on me, I will come apart.”

He swallowed hard; he couldn't resist her anymore. He couldn't bare the thought of not partaking in the gift she was offering. He bent to kiss her, lacing his fingers with hers. Her mouth moved beneath his, inviting him inside, but he kept it shallow. _For now._

“I know just the place,” he murmured. “Come with me.”

 

**Author's Note:**

> This concept is not mine, originally. I borrowed some stuff from Queen of Procrastination's 'Captivated' which you can read [here.](http://archiveofourown.org/works/4156692/chapters/9379020)
> 
> Thank you so much to broodywolf and quinn for beta/inspiration/being awesome, and thanks to my Skype group for all the help!! You guys are the best.


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